


The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

by OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is his Guide to the Kingdom of Heaven, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Courting Rituals, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is the Bastard Prince of Hell, Fantasy AU, First Kiss, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Rating May Change, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Frustration, The Rating has now changed, Top Crowley (Good Omens), but you just decide to go FUCK IT and marry the tutorial guy instead, its like your life became a dating simulator, wow those tags escalated quickly, yanno eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: As Hell’s bastard prince, Crowley is expected to wed an Archangel of Heaven’s kingdom to bring peace between the two warring nations.It's too bad he only has eyes for his sweet, absolute bastard of a Guide, the Principality Aziraphale, who is dead-set on making sure the engagement happens.For the sake of their kingdoms, Aziraphale leads the Prince of Hell through the long, arduous road of winning an Archangel’s favor and affections. However, Crowley would much rather use that romantic guidance to winhimover instead.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 285
Kudos: 379





	1. Step 1: Select the Target (of your Affections)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta, Valnine (animegirl1047) at ao3/@Valnine on tumblr~

And thus sayeth the Lord of Heaven:

_The wars are pointless. Might as well make a ceasefire. Hey, here’s an idea: bring your most expendable pawn to join in unholy matrimony with one of my elitist wankers to bolster this war-ruined economy._

Or rather, that’s how Crowley perceived the whole ordeal to have gone.

Perhaps a tad cruder than the grand scrolls with its elegant scripts, wriggly signatures and glorious crests and coat-of-arms adorning the designated treaty between their two kingdoms would lead others to believe. But in the end, that hardly mattered to Crowley.

Because spectacle and ceremony aside, Hell really _did_ send their more expendable (but still _Royal_ - _Enough-to-Count_ ) pawn to join in unholy matrimony with one of Heaven’s _damned_ Divines. With the _Archangels_ —anointed by the Queen herself as miniature _de facto_ rulers of Heaven’s domains. Sneering, snobbish, stuffy and insufferable and this _scheme_ —

Suicidal. This entire trip, the entire ordeal, and the very _notion_ that the precariously perched balance of peace laid within Crowley, _Bastard Prince_ of Hell’s, begrudging hands— is utterly stupid.

Crowley scowled as he eyed the Garden’s flora. The wisteria withered under his gaze, petal quivering in the face of the sour aura exuded from the sulking Prince. But could they really blame him? Flowers know nothing of having one’s whole life centered around the _illegitimacy_ of one’s birth. They weren't constantly reminded of their position as the withered, rotting branch the imperial tree, and then all of a sudden being _Granted this **fine** opportunity to bring **honor** and peace to this_ _damned Kingdom_ with the underlying threat of _**You better not fuck this up** _looming over their heads—

He heard commotion from beyond the castle gates and the ominous barking of hellhounds beneath. He let a grin snake across his lips. _Ah. So the search begins._

He knew galivanting off to _make some trouble_ would earn him a proper reprimand now that they were actually trying to make _nice_ with the Birds, but who did they have to blame it on but themselves? After all, Crowley spent many-a-year crafting his extensive history as a terrorizing nuisance, an intolerable annoyance, an antagonizing—

“Oh, dear…”

 _—Angel_?

Crowley peeked behind the archways, catching sight of cloud-puff hair and nervous, wringing hands.

Attached to, unsurprisingly, an Angel looking down at the ensuing mad scatter below.

There was a curious pull; something that Crowley didn’t bother to question as he inched forward and leaned against the cool stone of the curtain wall. “That one went down like a lead balloon, eh?”

Rather than flinch, the Angel let out an absentminded laugh. “Yes, rather.” He paused, the realization that there was another presence dawning on him. He turned. “Err. Sorry, what was it that you were saying?”

Looking back at it, Crowley would have sworn up and down his breath caught at the sight of cherubic cheeks, sea-storm eyes, and worry-bitten lips. But in reality, the single word _Pretty_ passed through his brain at such an alarming speed that Crowley barely had the attention-span to catch it as the Pretty Angel looked to him expectantly to answer.

Crowley stepped forth from the cool shade of the trees and joined the curious Angel at his perch. “I _said_ that one went down like a lead balloon.” 

“Oh. I suppose you’re right.” His eyes flickered down and he brought his hands together. There that nervous habit was again.

Crowley cleared his throat, eyes overlooking the bailey to the dots of villages over the horizon. “I think it was a bit of an overreaction, to be honest.”

The Angel beside him shrugged, an uneasiness in his voice. “He’s a _Prince_.”

 _Ah._ So that’s what this Angel was concerned about. He tried to keep the mirth from his voice. “And shouldn’t his footmen have been keeping a better eye on him because of that?” Hats off to Hastur and Ligur for being the best of the worst—Crowley knew he did well in selecting them. “It’s of no consequence to you, Angel.”

“What—of course it does!” Crowley raised a brow as the angel began to fluster all over again. “Oh, dear…He’s supposed to be my _charge_! I was to be his Guide in our Kingdom!” Panic started to creep into his voice all over again. “I haven’t even met him yet and now— _he’s gone_!”

It took perhaps a second or two to register what exactly this Angel was saying. _Charge_? **_This_** _lovely fool of an Angel—was to be **his** Guide?_

Huh. Maybe Crowley’s luck was taking a turn for the better after all.

“Where could he be? This is terrible—he must feel so lost right now! And alone!” Crowley gave a fascinated smile and was just his luck that the Angel missed it as he cast his eyes to the skies above for guidance, and then earthward for commiseration as the hellhounds sniffed fruitlessly for a trail that Crowley was more than adept at throwing off.

A plan drowsily wormed its way to Crowley’s thoughts. Perhaps he could have a bit of fun here as well. “Hang on there, Angel. I’m sure your charge isn’t too far off.”

The Angel did a double-take at the mysterious figure shrouded in dark robes—perchance comprehending for the first time that he was not conversing with another Bird. “Did you know the Prince? I ah, assumed you arrived with him,” he asked imploringly. “Perhaps he was merely hungry and wanted a nibble. Or—or he spoke of wanting to visit someplace in the Kingdom?”

That startled a laugh out of Crowley. He lowered his hood, fiery red hair and amber eyes unveiled to the Angel. “You could say that. But no, he didn’t seem to be very interested in…sightseeing, as it were.” He gave a knowing grin. “Perhaps he slithered off just to be a pest.”

“If he were trying to get lost on purpose, that just makes the situation even more difficult and dangerous!” The Angel was frowning again and—did he really not realize that Crowley was the person he was looking for?

 _This’ll be even more fun._ “There, there.” He gave a friendly pat to the Angel’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll be all right. Say, I’ll even help find him for you.” He bit back a chuckle.

But ah… “Oh! You _would_?” How the Angel lit up like the morning sky at that.

 _I’d gift you an entire continent if you keep looking at me with those eyes._ Crowley shook that thought from his head. “Of course.” He hummed, giving a sly smile. “For a price.”

The Angel blinked once. Then twice. “Oh.” Then, with certainty: “Name it. If it’s mine to give, it’s yours.”

Crowley leaned in closer, tilting his head to catch more of this Angel’s guarded face. Ah, not so soft and vulnerable now… “Oh, Angel. You ought to be careful making _deals_ with _Demons_.”

The Angel sent him a dry look. “I’m in no mood for your theatrics, err...” He gave a questioning glance.

Without even thinking: “J.” After one second of thinking: **_J?!_**

“Jay _?_ ” The Angel echoed.

Crowley shook his head; no going back on that one. “No, just J.”

“What does…”

“It’s just a J. Really,” he muttered tersely.

“Okay…J.” The Angel looked more unsure of pronouncing the Demon’s name than the terms of their agreement. “And yes. I’m sure. No price is too great for peace.”

Ah. One of those then. Crowley could understand the noble efforts and the valiant naivete that peace could be kept between their people all through the binding of blood-ties, but he fancied himself more of a realist. Still… “Very well.” He’ll lend a hand regardless for the sweet and foolish Angel before him. “Your name, then.” It’s not like he has a choice in the matter. 

The Angel sputtered. “My—my _what?”_

Crowley eyed him with confusion and impatience. “Give me your name.”

“What—just because _you_ were saddled with just a J doesn’t quite mean—”

“No, you _twat_.” He rolled his eyes at the offended gasp from his companion. “I meant I’d like to _know_ your name. That’s all. Unless you’d prefer me to call you Angel all the time. Or Bird.”

The Angel at least had the manners to look embarrassed. “Aziraphale,” he stated, holding out his hand in introduction. “That’s my name.”

 _Lovely_. “Eh. Too long. I’ll stick with Angel instead.” It’s still miles better than Just a _J_ but even Crowley’s subconscious refuses to acknowledge that. Taking the Angel’s hand and leading him away to the grounds below, he said over his shoulder: “Well, let’s be off. He’s obviously not here, right?”

“R-right!”

* * *

It was surprisingly hard work, finding yourself.

Or rather, pretending to find the person that you already are while at the same time avoiding the hellhounds and whatever unseasoned Hellions of his Legion that still haven’t learned their lesson about not-even-bothering-to-try-and-find-Prince-Crowley-when-he’s-escaped.

That, on top of navigating through a caste town with an Angel (also guilelessly looking for him) at his side.

There were one-too many close calls with a hellhound or two picking up his scent where he had to (regrettably) drag Aziraphale away from bakeries and patisseries towards the iron-sharp stench of the butcher’s just to throw them off. Some distance away, he could hear a soldier wrestling the dogs away from the meats, cursing colorfully with strained effort. It was a good thing his companion did little but eye him suspiciously whenever Crowley did so, but he shrugged it off whenever the Demon began (unwisely) interrogating the man possessing a meat-cleaver on the whereabouts of the Prince of Hell.

By the third hour of his escape, his disappearance was abuzz in all manner of conversation. So much so that it suddenly became quite easy to hide in plain sight. After all, they were expecting the Prince to hide amongst the shadows, fearful of daylight and capture, not be meandering off with a strange Angel he met by the Gardens and cross-examining people of his own location. 

“Are you quite certain that the Prince wouldn’t be err… peckish at this hour?”

 _It’s barely noon_ Crowley thought, and no, he wouldn’t be. He wasn’t too fond of mealtime; not when a hot plate of food also meant the whole ordeal of sitting through Beelzebub’s barking orders or the rousing topics of current politics hovering like flies. “I don’t believe so—”

A shadow of disappointment flashed through Aziraphale’s face before a new spark of inspiration brightened it. “Ah, but!” He took Crowley by the arm, leading him to another direction. “You’re a newcomer after all— please, let me interest you in this quaint eatery and show you what delicacies our kingdom has to offer—”

Right…and it had nothing at all to do with the Angel’s whimpering stomach. Crowley chortled. “I thought you wanted to find your charge.” The moment he said that, Crowley regretted it as Aziraphale dropped his hand and the enthusiasm in his step dropped dead.

“Err…right.” He glanced up at his companion sheepishly. _Fuck_ , Crowley mourned. “I mean you’re right, of course.” _I made him sad._

“No, no, I, ah.” He glanced down, finding the Angel’s hand and pulling him along. “Let’s go in, shall we?” He dragged the other to a bustling building, a savory aroma wafting through the air. “Maybe we’ll find some clues as to where he’s been from the gossip.”

Aziraphale blossomed radiantly at that. “Quite right, dear!”

Crowley’s heart sputtered in his chest at the unexpected endearment. “L-lead on, Angel.”

.

He didn’t mean to spend the next two hours there. In Aziraphale’s defense, they _did_ a thorough sweep of the area and listened in on conversation for any hints to the whereabouts of the missing Prince, but that all dissolved into a fine pile of goo to be thrown in a bucket and kicked out to gutters as Crowley got them a table. Then, naturally, Aziraphale placed an order for them to share, and a plate of oysters were naturally served to dine upon.

Crowley couldn’t help it if Aziraphale lit up like a sky-full of evening stars.

He looked positively besotted at the delicacy. “Oh, you _must_ try them, J. I insist!”

And so Crowley did. He liked them well enough.

But not nearly as much as he liked watching the look of sheer completion on Aziraphale’s face. Silvery lashes fluttering close, the shape of his lips as he closed his mouth around the tasty morsels, the _breathless_ sighs as he savored each bite—

Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was ever-fortunate that years of casting a mask of indifference on his face during mealtimes prepared him for this.

Then: a plate of something sweet, decadent, and sugary was placed between them. “We mustn’t forget about dessert!” Aziraphale happily intoned.

 _Satan preserve us_. Crowley watched on, pupils dilating ever-so-slightly as Aziraphale lapped up the cream.

* * *

It was sundown and Aziraphale was doomed.

 _NO_ —not just Aziraphale.

His country, their entire nation, the _KINGDOMS OF HEAVEN AND HELL—_

The two footmen in charge of the Prince in the first place actually had the _gall_ to look bored. In just a few minutes, the Prince would need to be announced before his intended suitors and if the Prince _doesn’t_ appear through those ridiculously ornate doors to the grand ballroom—

Political tensions would skyrocket to an all-time high. There would be distrust between the efforts of peace between the two nations. Uncertainty and suspicion would overrun the entire efforts to stop conflict and they’ll be back at each other’s throats all over again, ravaging war after fruitless war, sacrificing resources, land, citizens for the sake of the elite’s gain—

 _“Calm down, Angel,”_ J’s voice rattled off in his head. _“It’ll work out in the end. Just. Breathe.”_

_Just breathe. Just. Breathe._

Breathing did bollocks. Where was that wine…

A sizeable crowd had gathered now, consisting of high-ranking commanders and officials: the Seraphs, Cherubs, and even some Dominions. Their gazes briefly flitted past the Demons, snorting in amusement as their eyes flickered over to where Aziraphale stood by the threshold. The Principality tried not to squirm under their calculating stares.

He ought to have faith—that’s right. He ought to have faith that all will go according to the plan—well. Whatever plan She had in store.

Her Majesty the Queen may not have been completely clear in her instructions as she bequeathed him the responsibility of guiding Crowley, Prince of Hell, through their culture and kingdom in order to dutifully bind his life to that of the Divines. _Nevermind_ that it doesn’t make a _tick_ of sense that Crowley needs to _woo_ one of them in the first place if the goal is to simply establish peace by the sharing of bloodlines and _all that_ — but he’s an Angel.

And Angels were made to obey even if the ineffable plan was quite…in-affable.

The doors opened, a Demon’s lazy drawl commenced, and Aziraphale’s pulse quickened.

_“May I present to you—”_

Oh—

“ _His Royal Highness, son of King Lucifer of the Kingdom of Hell—_ ”

— ** _Fuck_**.

_“Prince Anthony J Crowley.”_

A beat of silence. Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face.

But then: “Just Crowley is fine.”

If it was possible to choke on absolutely nothing, Aziraphale would have been granted a very strange and rather rude epitaph if he happened to croak at this very moment. Well, one could suppose he _did_ choke on the incredulity of the scene before him:

Of _J_ sauntering through the doors with regal indifference, too-cool-to-be-bothered demeanor in his dark royal garb, nonchalant and nonplussed as if he didn’t just give Aziraphale a heart attack at the lightning-strike realization that he had _just spent the entire afternoon looking for the damned Prince—only for said Prince to lead him around town square on a wild goose chase._

Aziraphale couldn’t move—couldn’t breathe. He was humiliated—for sure—but he hadn’t planned on doing _anything_ about it within the vicinity of the eyes of Heaven’s elites—

That was, until J—Prince _Crowley—_ caught his gaze and sent him a smarmy grin.

.

Aziraphale was rightfully pissed. And Crowley found it adorable.

He had planned to apologize, he really did! He not only thoroughly enjoyed the company of his Guide, but it seemed that Aziraphale—unlike most of the dead-eyed stares within the room—actually _gave a shit_ about peace—about _him_! And that wasn’t something Crowley was about to let go. He decided it would be best to let the Angel simmer down a little and then confront him when most of the heat had dissipated with some fine wine and dancing—

But alas. That flustered face was too sweet a temptation to ignore. So after making his proper appearance to the Archangels ( _bow, proclaim your title, Pleased to make your acquaintance, I look forward to working together in the name of peace between our two kingdoms, yaddayaddayadda)_ and there he goes back again to the red-faced, scowling little Bird.

Had Aziraphale not been blustering with ill-contained frustration at him, he might have even noticed the eyes on them as Crowley approached. The Prince gave a sweeping bow—“ _To a Principality_?” someone murmured among the masses— and took Aziraphale’s hand with all the blithe charm he could muster. “Pleased to _formally_ make your acquaintance.”

All fallen on deaf ears and eyes blinded by rage. _“YOU!”_ Aziraphale hissed out.

If it wouldn’t make tensions between them even worse, Crowley would have thrown his head back in a laugh. Instead, he settled for pleased-as-punch smile ~~that the Angel, had he inhaled more liquid courage into his system, might have put description to reality~~. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we?”

And so, the gallant prince goes, sweeping his Guide off his feet into a dance as the celebration began and a swell of music drifted through the air.

But alas, Aziraphale doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s _dancing with the_ _Prince_ right now—he was merely content to hissing in his ear. “ _J!_ ”

“Or dance, as it stands, err, sways,” Crowley corrected as he took the lead. “And like I said, you can call me Crowley, Angel.” _Forward_. “And see? I told you everything would be all right!” _Side._

 _Closed_. “ _I SPENT HOURS LOOKING FOR YOU!_ And—you were the Prince all along?!”

A pull, back and forth. “Guilty,” Crowley replied, though his tone implied he was anything but. The Angel was pouting again. “Oh don’t look so cross at me. We had a good time, right?”

 _Back_. Aziraphale sputtered. _“I SAW MY LIFE FLASH BEFORE MY EYES WHEN THEY ANNOUNCED YOU!”_ _Side_.

 _Closed_. Crowley huffed, clearly and infuriatingly amused. “Did that include the time you met a mysterious, handsome fellow who, out of the goodness of his heart, decided to aid you in looking for your charge today?”

 _Back_. “No,” He seethed tartly. “It included the time I met an irritation of a Royal who decided to _play me for a sucker_.”

 _Forward_. “Tsk, don’t think of it like that. Think of it as—getting to know each other,” Crowley offered. Aziraphale eyed him darkly. _Side_. “Without the pomp and regality of it all,” he continued. “After all, I certainly enjoyed my time with you.” _Closed_.

 _Back_. “Hmph.” But Crowley could already see the steam running out. The tense and terse replies relaxed to a tranquil banter. “Well—It appears that I’ll need to keep closer eye on you. In case you decide to cause anyone else grief.” There was still a glower in those stormy eyes, but there was also a hint of a resenting smile on those wine-pinked lips.

 _Forward_. Crowley gave him a wicked grin. “Oh, Angel. You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll be sure to save all my mischief just for you—”

 _Side_. “ _You_ — _!_ ”

 _Closed._ “—if it means we get to have more days like today.”

 _Ah._ There's a face Crowley could wax romantics about. Or, rather, commission some poet or other to. But right now, he'd rather enjoy the simple intimacy of keeping that lovely, soft and rosy bit of awe on his Guide's face for himself. 

And he’ll be sure to make it up to him later. It wouldn’t do to be in ill graces with his Guide after all; and certainly, it would make his stay far less fun. From their outing that day, it became very apparent that his Guide has a penchant for good food and wine…

The first song ended with a bustle of cheer from the crowd and Aziraphale froze, the realization hitting him square in the face that he just spent the first dance with _the Prince_. It sent Aziraphale reeling, thoughts coming to a halt between the immovable object of two choices keeping him frozen in place: to crawl away from the crowd and into his bed for a solid week or to walk away with some semblance of dignity far, far away from the Prince.

But alas; it appeared that Crowley just so happened to be an unstoppable force to pull him away from his (safer) two options. “You’re not bad!” Crowley laughed, taking his hand again as the music started up and before any of the Birds could swoop down and interrupt their fun.

He gave a fanciful twirl to the startled Angel, holding him tight to make sure the other didn’t stumble in his steps. The song possessed a faster tempo this time; he hoped the Angel could keep up.

Given enough time and patience to allow the Angel to concede that _This is my life now_ , he, in fact, could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet-cute? Check.  
> A prince in disguise? Check.  
> Aziraphale dancing something other than the gavotte—wait, what? Also check. 
> 
> More to come, I think. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Step 2: Gather Intel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley learns and yearns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise, I actually updated! 
> 
> Also, note: this is a Fantasy AU; they may be Angels and Demons, but not in the biblical portrayal. Just think of them as two opposing, fantastical races (although in this fic, Demons were once Angels but after they rebelled against the Queen, they became another sort of creature entirely). Heaven is a Northern Kingdom, Hell is Southern—not the white, sterile offices and clouds of Heaven nor the dank dungeons of Hell in the show and other media. 
> 
> Also had the idea that Heaven was more of a ranked-based society (military, almost; think Tokugawa Shogunate Japan) with their de facto leaders divvying up the lands, whereas Hell has more traditionally inherited powers. 
> 
> And Demons call Angels “Birds” for a…resentful reason. It will be explained in a future chapter. 
> 
> Anyways, here’s chapter two~

The castle wing generously bestowed to Crowley and the rest of his Legion was lavish in its towering ceilings and ornate tapestries; pristine in its Heavenly whites and creams and the dutiful servants keeping offending grime away; and above all—it was _spacious._ Wide and echoing. Fit for royalty, one might say. So, it was quite understandable how it really chafed away at Crowley’s (remaining) patience (and sanity) to find Hastur and Ligur squirreled away in his quarters.

Again.

Yes, he understood that they may be his _footmen,_ but this was also precisely why Crowley tended to “disappear” for hours (even days at a time) in his own abode in Hell’s Kingdom.

Crowley paid little heed to Ligur’s scrutinizing gaze as he approached the attached study; to do so would show weakness before his subordinates and _that_ was a decidedly unwise thing to do given his current position.

The position being smuggling another one of Hell’s scarce literary publications for his Guide’s reading pleasure.

But it was Hastur that broke the silence with a sly grin and a meaningful look as he eyed what was in Crowley’s hands. “Another tome, Prince Crawly?”

 _Well. Some greeting to your Prince._ Crowley shot him a scowl. “Another remark out of you and you’ll _crawling_ back to Hell.” Nevertheless, Hastur looked nonplussed as always so Crowley shrugged; he’ll get back at him later for that. “Besides, this is payment,” he protested. More so for the Angel’s delightful company than any _real_ progress in his princely responsibilities, but they needn’t know that bit _._

“Payment to the Guide _assigned_ to you by the Queen herself?” Ligur added with a derisive snort. “Ah yes, what a great _boon_ to have this queer Bird in our midst.”

“A Bird in hand is worth two in a bush,” Crowley assured. Not that he would even entertain the absurd notion of replacing Aziraphale as his Guide. “Nothing wrong with a little encouragement.”

Ligur was decidedly unconvinced. “You two spent the last week traipsing about every fine eatery in this God-be-damned Kingdom. I think he’s plenty encouraged.”

“Ah, but perhaps not in the manner the Prince would like?” Hastur said with gleaming eyes.

Crowley didn’t outwardly flinch. Of _course_ he didn’t. “He’s—” _lovely to be around._ “More than entertaining—”

“But not quite like the rest of your toy soldiers, eh _Your Highness?”_ Ligur remarked with a sneering curl of his lips.

“Certainly treats him better than his own lot!” Hastur supplied with a chortle, sneaking a conspiratory smirk at the other. “Looking to _nest_ with this particular Bird before gettin’ shackled to the old ball and chain?”

And that’s when Crowley decided he’d had enough. “Bah. No need to be so crass.” He waved the insinuation off, wishing he could do the same to the twin annoyances holding in snickers and rude gestures at his expense.

It really wouldn’t do to have them meddling in his personal affairs.

And yes, his blooming— _whatever_ it was he had with Aziraphale—was most definitely _personal._

Crowley cleared his throat. “His company aids in getting accustomed to being flocked by other Birds.” _A bit of a lie, but what’s the harm in that?_

Aziraphale was hardly like the others. He was an oddity, certainly, but a _rarity_ with his unabashed enthusiasm towards his indulgences, his general love for his comforts and all matter of life around, the soft glow about him, such a stark contrast from the lurid light and air of sterility the others exuded.

But that was why Crowley _liked him_ so much. He gave a brief hum. “Though I suppose I am curious.” _And a grain of truth to really throw them off—_ “Why, indeed, send such a queer Bird to sort me through this whole mess.” He’d meant the question to come out—detached. Perhaps just a bit pensive. But it didn’t. “Out of literally _anyone_ else.” It came off rather hopeful, wishful.

Apprehensive. _It’s not so often that my luck happens to turn out all right. Makes a Demon all sorts of anxious,_ Crowley thought.

Thankfully, it seemed neither of the two picked up on it. “If he can put up with the likes of your company, why not? Besides…” Ligur eyed the tome in Crowley’s hands. “He’s certainly got you on your best behavior.”

There were several responses Crowley could have chosen. He could have denied it of course, playing deeper into the Demons’ hands at his own expense. He could _prove them wrong_ —which in all intents and purposes would have been the more entertaining option, especially if he could pin the ensuing trouble he’d been itching to cause on to _them_. Or he could have played the Royal Card—remind them of exactly _who_ they were serving: rotten branch of the Royal tree or not, Crowley was their _Prince—_ at the cost of letting them know deep down, that perhaps _yes_ , maybe Crowley did care a bit more for his Guide than what was probably, Demonly, comfortable.

Instead, he opted for a scoff, a one-worded rebuttal, and a suave saunter as he exited the room. _“Nonsense.”_

He had no remark, however, for why he took the tome with him as he headed off.

He was already late in meeting Aziraphale as it was.

.

Why was it that whenever one was late, it couldn’t be for a few seconds—or even a few minutes?

Some impassable obstacle just _has_ to miraculously (or cursedly, really) manifest to snowball a small hindrance to an entire ordeal.

And that entire ordeal came in the form of a balding Bird with an insincere smile, just outside his quarters. “Prince Crowley, if I could have a moment of your time?” Crowley frowned all the while and didn’t relent his pace. “I couldn’t help but overhear, Your Grace—”

 _Right_. The halls _echoed,_ after all.

Crowley did his best to pay it no mind, already picking up his pace, legs widening their stride. A scan to his side and—yep. It*** was following him. _Fuck._ After a tick or two of silence, Crowley sighed. “Our people have long lost _Her Grace_ —no need to address me as such.”

“Right. Of course,” it replied easily. “Sandalphon, Prince Crowley,” it greeted, though it did not offer its hand as customary for other Birds. “You have questions, I’m to understand? About the Principality Aziraphale.”

 _That_ gave Crowley pause. “Principality, you say?” _His Guide?_ The book-hoarding, sweets-loving, sunshine-smile Aziraphale— a warrior?

Birds often didn’t give Crowley a good feeling—save Aziraphale, of course—but this one was _particularly_ unpleasant. “Indeed, but by title alone.” Crowley didn’t like the way it seemed far too excited to share whatever it had to say: “His ranking—is…In a dubious state.”

 _And there it was_. 

Crowley gave it an unimpressed look. “Is it now.”

Unfortunately, the Bird was simply undeterred. “Oh, yes.” It nodded, almost somber. “He was an absolutely adequate warrior. Lead his own platoons during the wars past—”

_“Aziraphale?”_

Crowley knew he made a fatal error from the wide grin spreading across its face. It leaned in, whispering low. “He even served as Archangel Gabriel’s subordinate.”

It all suddenly clicked into place. _So that’s why he’s so familiar with the Archangels_.

This was…indeed quite valuable information. But even then—Crowley couldn’t see it. Aziraphale obviously didn’t want war—seemed to be wholly devoted to the cause of keeping peace between their kingdoms—at least, when Crowley wasn’t purposefully distracting him with little ~~gifts~~ _payments_ and banter. He had thought that perhaps the Angel had been too soft for war; he never considered the possibility that perhaps he was softened by it instead. Still, it wouldn’t do well to have a little chinwag with someone so eager to defame his Guide. Especially with a being that knew full well his relationship with Aziraphale.

The professional one, anyways.

And Crowley had to remember to keep playing that part. “Well, it seems they brought the right person for the job, then,” Crowley responded, almost testily. He knew what the Bird was baiting him for, but Crowley wouldn’t comment on the status of Aziraphale’s title. To do so felt like a betrayal to his Guide—and to do such an incredibly thoughtless sort of thing that would no doubt place Crowley far from Aziraphale’s good graces.

Not that Sandalphon needed encouragement in the first place. “Oh _agreed,_ Prince Crowley. It’s certainly a mutually beneficial little arrangement. Well of course, _Aziraphale_ has everything to gain from it anyways.” This Bird was more than content to sing like a canary. It gave a wheezy chuckle. “Probably begged the Queen herself to allow him some task to prove his worth to her again.”

Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes and heaving an exasperated breath. “Are you content to prattle on about another Angel’s business to _anyone_ who pays you mind?”

It backed off, raising its palms in an inoffensive manner. “I’m merely giving you some insight!” It gave another slimy grin. “You asked a question, after all.”

And _damnit all_ questions were always Crowley’s favorite weakness. He gave one, _hard_ look at the Bird before relenting, carefully keeping the uninterested façade. “All right. I’m listening.”

“Rumor has it—” It gave a cruel smile. “—that he was dishonored and _stripped_ of his flaming sword. And no one knows why—save for the Queen and Aziraphale himself.”

There was a beat of silence before Crowley’s resolve further buckled. “A flaming sword, you say?” he asked evenly.

And how Crowley _detested_ that wicked sheen in its eyes. “Yes. It flamed like anything.”

Again—quite a bit to take in. There were several methods and modalities available at Crowley’s disposal to respond to this influx of information. He could very well give a curt nod and leave it as is—allow the Bird to believe he ruminated the information for a moment—just a moment—before tossing it away as just a fanciful fact. He could very well _thank_ the Bird for the interesting intel, perhaps even bait the being into telling him more—but honestly, even the offhanded thought made Crowley’s stomach churn in a way that wasn’t even remotely pleasant, so that was obviously off the table.

So, wisely, Crowley settled for a derisive snort. “Ah. Must have been impressive, especially to give such a dangerous weapon to a _pacifist_ ,” tone disbelieving, uncaring. “But if he no longer has it, then this information really serves no purpose to me. I’d be more concerned were it the case that he _possessed_ such a weapon and used it in an untoward way against myself or my Legion.”

“Err…I suppose…” It responded cautiously, perhaps unknowing of whether or not to be affronted by the utter disregard for what it had known to be reality-shattering knowledge.

And perhaps—in a way, this information was.

But it would take a lot more than _hearsay_ to change how Crowley felt about Aziraphale. “And you say these are—” He gave it a scrutinizing look. “ _Rumors_ , is that right?”

Sandalphon startled. “Well, they may be _rumors_ , but—” 

“All baseless drivel when it comes down to it.” Crowley huffed.

It must have known Aziraphale cared more for peace than winning an expensive, horrendous disagreement for power. It didn’t matter that in times past that the Angel was out there in the bastions and fortresses, armed and ready to lay down his life for this useless struggle.

To add a bit of insult to injury, for his Guide’s honor, Crowley added, “Is that everything you wanted to say?”

 _Who he is **now** is all that matters_.

The Prince made a show of rolling his eyes when he was met with a beat of silence. “And to think I believed you to have something useful to tell me.”

And right _now_ his Angel—his _Guide—_ is waiting for him, waiting for _Crowley_. And _damn it all,_ Crowley was really late!

“I—” it stammered.

Crowley turned, continuing his way as he gave the Bird a wave of dismissal. “That is all.”

* * *

It was quite easy to turn tail and head away from that blathering Bird and its rather _rude_ insinuations towards Aziraphale—

But it was quite different to get away from what he’d learned. Rather, it was impossible to _unlearn_ and unlisten to the implications. Not particularly _aimed_ at Aziraphale, and not even the insinuation aimed at their…well.

Work relations, as it were.

Besides, it normally wouldn’t bother Crowley to hear that he was just an assignment—a woefully accepted _obligation_ —he’s been used to that all his life. But what _did_ bother him was that this didn’t seem like Aziraphale at all.

Granted, he’d only known his Guide for a little over a week— _but_ Crowley prides himself in being an excellent judge of character.

~~Which was precisely why it seemed like this Angel was the only being he’d ever truly felt drawn to.~~

He didn’t know _everything_ about the Angel, but he felt like he had one of the most important basics down: the Angel loved his comforts. He loved his fine wines and lazy afternoons, cozy reading nooks and buttery pastries. He hardly seems like the type who’d thirst for blood for his scorching, battle-ready blade. It was quite like a adding a tomato to a fruit salad: you _know_ it’s a bloody fruit, but it doesn’t quite fit the description, nor fill the role.

The thing about these niggling thoughts, however, is that the harder one concentrates on _not_ thinking about it, the harder it becomes to ignore. And it’s hardly Crowley’s fault—that stupid Bird brought it up—and even now, with Aziraphale regaling to him of the Archangel Gabriel’s penchant for fine clothes—the question burned at the back of his tongue. So, Crowley did the only thing a Demon _could_ do in a conundrum such as this:

Yield to temptation.

“Say,” Crowley interjected. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

Aziraphale sputtered to a pause, a fragment of Fraisier slipping off his fork. “I—I’m sorry?”

“Yeah,” Crowley ventured, ~~carefully~~ casually. “Heard it flamed like anything.”

Aziraphale blinked, absorbing the words but not quite extrapolating its meaning quite yet. It’s fine. Crowley can wait.

He was prepared for the awkward silence and unrelenting tension that would no doubt follow. He was prepared for the Angel to deny it, lie with a flushed face and a nervous titter, and attempt to redirect the conversation. He was prepared for the Angel to sigh, soulful and deep, and ask who told Crowley. But Crowley, in his careless preparation to the consequences of opening this particular can of worms, forgot one, vital thing:

This was Aziraphale he was talking to. “I—I, _well_ —uhm!” Prone to flustering. “That is…” And prone to being thrown into a prickly, nervous frenzy. “It’s—it’s hardly any of your business now!”

And prone to vehemently reprimanding Crowley about what should and _should not_ be said in a public restaurant.

Crowley took a wary glance about them; most of the patrons and staff scurried from the Prince’s glare. He _really_ ought to have chosen a better place to spring a question like this. “Angel—”

But it looked like Aziraphale was getting ready to leave—to _flee._

And _that_ was not something Crowley was prepared for at all.

“Angel—Angel, wait!”

But in a heartbeat or two, he’d vanished— strawberries and cream left unfinished.

* * *

Crowley supposed Aziraphale couldn’t be _that_ mad. He didn’t fly off into the sunset leaving Crowley as just a sulking mote of dust behind him, after all. No, instead he simply chose to _ignore_ Crowley as the prince helplessly, and hopelessly, trailed after him like an offending lover, ready to swallow his pride after a tiff gone awry while the Angel stomped all the way back to the castle.

“Slow _down,_ you bloody Bird,” Crowley groaned and miraculously—

He did. He stopped right in his tracks and sat down on the stone bench overlooking the pond.

Crowley sagged against the garden bench, finding that while he was content to call out after the Guide, he wasn’t quite ready to lay out everything he felt like he should say just yet.

The prince cast his gaze to the scenery instead. The pond before them mirrored the vibrant pinks and indigos painting across the sky; the bustle of the castle and its inhabitants sounded so far away from behind the towering walls, encasing the sliver of paradise with silence and solitude.

Aziraphale had led them there, Crowley realized with a start, with the intention of talking without interruption and witnesses.

Beside him Aziraphale scoffed. “Really, _Prince_ Crowley, to approach someone with such a _personal_ inquiry in such a _public_ area—”

“For the last _time,_ Angel. Just call me Crowley.” He looked over to Aziraphale, seeing the mounting trepidation on his face and stiffness on his shoulders. But he was _trying_ to keep the conversation open and he wasn’t running—that was better than what Crowley could hope for. “And better my asking than the other Birds,” Crowley countered. “Squawking behind your back, telling tall tales and spreading rumors—”

A pause. There went that nervous habit again. “Oh. So, you’ve heard from—one of them.” Soft, plump hands, tugging and straightening the whites and creams of his robes; delicate fingers and manicured nails, not meant to brandish swords and spill blood.

Hands Crowley wanted to take in his own, hold them still and feel those fingers curl and intertwine with his instead. “Not by my choice, mind you.” But Crowley didn’t. “The balding one—bit of a slimy fellow—”

“Sandalphon.”

“Yes, that one.” Aziraphale was avoiding his gaze, resolutely staring off into the still waters before them. Crowley swallowed and thought that at the very least—the Angel deserved to hear the truth. “Started raving about your title, or well lack thereof, and—” Quietly, gently, though it was easy enough for Crowley to say. “I didn’t believe it.” Because it was true. “Not the important bits anyways.”

There was a quick, darting look towards him and Crowley uneasily shuffled closer, facing the Angel fully.

“I know you’re a Principality—that seems to be common knowledge amongst the other Birds. But I don’t think you were stripped of your honor like that.” That response garnered him a questioning look. “At least—not for the reasons anyone else could think of.”

“What…what makes you so say that?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley hated them all for making is Guide sound so unsure.

He gave a chagrined smile. “Do I really have to say it?” He blew a noisy sigh, hoping to ease the ascending tension with petulant humor. “You’re an _Angel_. _” No, not like them. You’re better than the others._ “I don’t think it’s actually possible for you to do the wrong thing.”

Whatever reaction Crowley was hoping for with a response like that, he certainly wasn’t prepared for the heartbreaking _disbelief_ and _awe_ in those Angel eyes.

 _“Crowley…”_ Neither was he prepared for that _something_ in the quiet, _tender_ way Aziraphale gasped his name—

—that made Crowley want to dive straight into the lake to douse the turbulent flood of warmth that sank its fangs straight into his chest, squeezing the bleeding organ with its lovely thorns.

Crowley coughed, suddenly finding his throat dry and chest pounding. “Well, _my_ theory was that you probably didn’t even _want_ a war in the first place—and there’s really nothing wrong with that.” _Shit_. _Shitshitshitshitshit oh FUCK THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING—_ “After all this war business is utter rubbish, I tell you. About damn time we made actual efforts in forming a proper treaty. Not that I completely _agree_ with the modality they’ve chosen to enact in the name of armistice, but—”

_“I GAVE IT AWAY!”_

The thorns squeezed tighter. Crowley could barely let out a wheezing, “You… _what?”_

Aziraphale looked absolutely **wretched**.

And Crowley wanted to kiss that expression right off his beautiful face.

“The sword. The one given to me by the Queen.” The Angel raised his arm to gesticulate something before giving up halfway, letting his hand fall to his lap. “Oh, what was I supposed to do? Our platoon did our best to minimize the damage, but even then, that battle absolutely decimated that village! There could have been all sorts of terrifying beasts out there, not to mention marauders and the like with their defenses gone!”

“…What?” was Crowley’s ever-intelligent reply.

Aziraphale fortunately took that as a _Please, do go on, I’m ever-so-intrigued by this turn of conversation and not at all finding myself at the brink of despair at the horrific realization of my own stupid emotions._

“So I thought, ‘Well, they need it a lot more than I do right now’ and I told the village leader _Take it, don’t bother to thank me!”_ He rubbed his hands distractedly, frantic anxiety bleeding into his voice. “And—and, the magic on it should only _protect_ them, it shouldn’t be used to start any—”

“You…gave your sword away. The sword given to you by _Her_.” Crowley’s heart was hammering now, driving the pinprick points deeper, yet it did little to calm the stone-drop of cold dread at the pit of his stomach. “To protect some vulnerable people? Angel…” _That’s wonderful. You’re wonderful, you foolish, **lovely** git._ “Well, where is it now?”

“In…” The Angel floundered, gaze darting to his lap again. “In a quaint village. Hopefully nicely repaired and thriving by now.”

“Well, go get it then!” _Yes, please, let’s go—run, run far, far away—_ “Put an end to the rumors—stick it to Sandalphon’s grubby little face—”

_\--far enough that maybe then these feelings won’t reach you._

“It’s…not so easy,” Aziraphale answered apprehensively.

“Come now, Angel. I’ll even come with you—like one of our day trips!” Crowley himself was already warming to the idea. It was like a little adventure. Like seeking a lost treasure—a _real_ one! Clearing the Angel’s name, off to conquer the Nosy Gossips of Heaven’s domains, to slay the evils of shit-talking— Prince Crowley and Principality Aziraphale—

_Crowley and Aziraphale--_

And maybe Crowley did want that. Maybe he did want to go off with Aziraphale, forget this Prince and Guide rubbish for just a while, escape to a small pocket in time where titles and responsibilities didn’t exist. Just them two, and a grand, old adventure laid out for them both. There were surely lots of places to see. It’s a great big world out there, just out or reach from the two borders of their respective kingdoms. The Other Side, where the maps ended but the skies continued on.

And where other lines blurred completely.

But. Baby steps. Crowley reigned himself in again, despite the frenzied beating in his chest. “I mean, you’ve been wanting to show off Heaven’s _charming little towns_ —”

“Erm…” Aziraphale was starting to look panicked again. “That’s the thing.” He gave an anxious little smile. “It’s…not in Heaven.”

Normally, Crowley possessed a fine and rich vocabulary borne of years under strict tutelage all because his mum shacked up with the King of Hell and spawned him in the process. _“What?”_ Today, all those lessons flew out his brain—

“It’s…a bit farther than that.” Aziraphale held his gaze to Crowley’s. “A bit _further_ South, rather.”

—missed the pond completely and smacked straight into the white stones of the garden walls. _“Angel…”_

“ _Yes_ , okay? _”_ Somehow, Aziraphale managed to look even more miserable—and dramatic, by far. “The village— _my sword—_ It’s in Hell’s domain.” He gave an imploring and helpless look to the stone-frozen Crowley. “But _shhh_ please, promise you’ll keep this a secret?” And just like that, he took Crowley’s hands in his own, asking, beseeching, “Just between us?”

Crowley would have confessed to all the Divines in the High Heavens that _this_ was the moment Crowley fell—horrifically, dreadfully, disastrously, and _absolutely_ — in love with Aziraphale. There, underneath the peaking moon and glitter of stars. In a garden, after Aziraphale shared with him his greatest burden—that this Angel had sacrificed his loyalty for _love_ and protection for a people he did not know or understand, for a belief he didn’t know he had in himself.

“Yeah…” Crowley squea— _no, no, that was **not** a squeak damn you. _He hastily cleared his throat, covering those soft hands with his own. “Yeah, no worries there.” He met Aziraphale worried eyes evenly and vowed: “I promise. You have my word, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale slipped his hand out of from Crowley’s and Crowley’s stupid brain had the fucking _audacity_ to think the appropriate response to that was to instinctively _whine_ at the loss of contact.

Aziraphale, luckily, did not take heed of this offense. “Thank you…” he breathed, shoulders sagging, as he held his hand to his chest. Crowley wondered if the Angel’s heart was beating just as obnoxiously as his. “And…thank you, for. Well...” If the Angel’s heart mirrored his own. “It’s nice to finally get that off my conscience, really.” The Angel gave a tired laugh, one that didn’t really meet his eyes, one that sank and fell flat on itself. “I always did worry if that was the best course.”

“Like I said, Angel.” His hand came forward, floundering before finding its way to the slope of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m not sure if it’s actually possible for you to do the wrong thing.” _You’re too good for that._

 _Too good for me,_ a dark, traitorous thought echoed back.

Crowley would decree that it was here, beneath starlight and Aziraphale’s sunbeam smile that Crowley would embark on the path of rewriting his own stars for a change. He knew that he was endangering his entire Kingdom and the Kingdom of Heaven by choosing Aziraphale, despite his royal obligations— but he’s a risk-taker with a lot of imagination. He doesn’t know _how_ to persuade two kingdoms to accepting his choice—if that could even become a _possibility_ at all.

And if not…

_Maybe running off wouldn’t be such a bad option._

_Running off—together._

But—baby steps. Firstly, he must start with getting Aziraphale to accept his courtship.

 _Speaking of which…_ “Oh! This is for—you.” He reached into his pocket, wriggling the tome out from where it had been jabbing him while he ran after the flighty Bird. “I brought you a little something.”

There was that smile again. “Crowley, this is—oh my…” The one that likely damned him from the start. “It’s _lovely_ —”

Crowley attempted a scoff, though it likely sounded like a sputter. “It’s a rather sad and dreary one, written over a millennium ago by a rather sad and dreary fellow. I thought it’d be right up your alley.” He watched carefully from the corner of his eye, seeking any discomfort from Aziraphale, any sign that the gift was not to his liking, not to his standards, not _up to par_ with what he deserved. “Always preferred the funny ones myself.”

“I’m _honored_.” But he could find none. Only an excited smile and eyes of far-off skies poring over the text; just the look of an Angel utterly enamored at the prospect of reading a new tale, exploring another world within the confines of word and mind. 

And in reality, it was probably _here_ where Crowley fully and undeniably faced the ill-tuned music that he fell treacherously and helplessly in love—this moment where the evidence stared back at him so boldly in his face, that he realized the extent of these rather inconvenient feelings he had towards the Principality Aziraphale—the Principality who wanted nothing more than peace and was willing to marry off the prince to one unlucky and unhappy Archangel to achieve it.

Because _damn it_ he wanted Aziraphale to look at **_him_** like that _._

And upon accepting that foolish thought as truth, it all came crashing down in that very instant.

 _Fuck_. _I love him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Fun fact: Sandalphon’s pronouns in the book and script are “it.”


	3. Interlude: A Guide's Folly and Frustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale struggles to find the meaning behind Crowley's exceedingly odd behaviors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll try to make updates a weekly thing if I can. But this one was turning into a monster.
> 
> Special thanks to the folks of tumbr: top-crowley-central, sadwendigo, imjustadrummer and of course, hope-for-snow (dw bby I’ll give you yours next time) for helping me come up with these little courting intricacies!
> 
> The POV changes with line separations and both Crowley and Aziraphale get to share their thoughts in this chapter~

Aziraphale fought the urge to pace back and forth.

_He’s late. Again…_

Aziraphale could understand being nervous; he himself was the last person to fault another for such feelings. It was, after all, quite a momentous occasion.

The Angel did his best to set the mood: an abundance of miracled flora sprawling vibrantly over the white walls, the clearance of both his and Crowley’s schedules, and all on a lovely sunset—clouds painted with lovely pinks and blues as the warm, orange twilight bathed the castle in its romantic glow.

Aziraphale ducked his head out from the balcony and his heart caught in his throat—

 _Ah. Finally_.

The prince had arrived.

Aziraphale sighed a breath of relief and smiled to himself as he let his eyes trail over him. _Well, doesn’t he look fetching?_

Crowley tended to wear darker garb, as was customary for many people in Hell, and while he hadn’t altered that aspect of his wardrobe, he _did_ heed Aziraphale’s light suggestion in wearing something a little more form-fitting… something that accentuated Crowley’s height, his lean body, and elegant lines. And the results were nothing less than spectacular.

Crowley, unfortunately, was making a face far less pleasant to look at.

Or rather he did until he met eyes with Aziraphale; a bright smile graced his lips and Aziraphale gave a little wave back.

 _Good_ , Aziraphale thought. What was probably pre-date jitters seemed to melt right off. Aziraphale gave an encouraging grin in return and made a gesture for the prince to get on with it.

Archangel Uriel wasn’t going to stand around at the keep forever.

The prince made a show of rolling his eyes before sauntering towards the awaiting Archangel, her shoulders visibly stiffening at the sign of the prince’s approach.

Holding a breath and uttering a short prayer, Aziraphale forced himself to watch on with apprehensive hope. It was quite difficult to get a hold of any of the Archangels, but with the deleterious prospect of war hanging over their heads, the Archangels were less inclined to deny a Prince of Hell private audience.

Then, it was simply a matter of choosing one that best suited Crowley’s fancy.

Archangel Michael was the most revered of the Archangels: her fortitude in the battlefield earned her place as the Queen’s Right Hand—

—but that being said, she was also terrifying, slain innumerous members of Hells’ army, and in Crowley’s words “a wanker.”

Though Aziraphale sputtered at the last bit, Aziraphale supposed he should count their lucky stars that there were other choices to speak of; Michael, for now, was safely off the table.

Then there’s Archangel Gabriel—

—to which Crowley vetoed outright. “Angel, does it _look_ like I fancy the prospect of going for an early morning jog every damned day for the rest of my life?” And, well…

Aziraphale could hardly fault him for that, now could he?

That left Archangel Uriel.

Calm and steadfast in her mannerisms, Aziraphale felt that out of all the Archangels, Uriel would probably be their best bet in going forward with their Queen’s plan. Sure, she seemed a bit cold. Standoffish, really, and a tad intimidating—but she was also a refined lover of the arts. Something that Crowley (and himself) could greatly appreciate.

 _There_ , Aziraphale thought triumphantly. _An Archangel who isn’t interested in liquid protein concoctions and an Archangel who you can bring home to without constant threats of assassination for vengeance._ Crowley, ~~begrudgingly~~ half-heartedly, agreed.

 _Oh! They’re conversing!_ The Angel fought back a delighted sound. He really, _really_ hoped this would go well. He _prayed_ that they’d at least get along. Aziraphale wasn’t naïve—he knew how much of a sacrifice this was for Crowley—for anyone, really. To tie one’s life to another for an end for a conflict, rather than for the simple joy and a promise to live a life together. It was…suboptimal, to say the least. But it must be done and all Aziraphale could do now was hope that Crowley could find both; that this would all work out in the end and that the prince would find himself with a happy marriage and live in an era of peace.

A happily-ever-after.

Aziraphale, with his love of romances and tales, was a Principality to his core. Despite their roles during the wars, Principalities were ultimately made to love.

And oh, how Aziraphale _loved_ love. 

Hope bloomed in his chest as the minutes ticked by. It seemed to be going well enough.

 _Well_ _enough_ being the key phrasing here. Neither of them made the efforts to step closer, keeping a sizeable distance as they conversed. It was always difficult to read Archangel Uriel but with their backs turned perched on the keep, and Aziraphale only able to observe from a tower balcony, it was impossible to tell the reality of things.

 _But_ at least the prince wasn’t flung off across the battlements, so Aziraphale would take that as a small victory. A positive sign.

Or it _was,_ up until Crowley likely made a bad joke, judging from his shaking shoulders and the way the Archangel slowly turned beside him. Aziraphale’s high hopes took a sharp nosedive to the pits of his stomach, a feeling of dread creeping up to within him.

 _Oh no_.

The pair seemed to exchange a few words before the Archangel Uriel turned and walked off, a noticeable haste in her stride, leaving Crowley making a hapless shrug at her exit.

Aziraphale blew out a blustery sigh, mourning the failed attempt. _Back to the drawing board_. He rushed out of the room, out of the spires, and towards the gardens at their designated meeting place.

And in his rush, he completely overlooked the triumphant grin on Crowley’s face and the pleasant tune he whistled out as he walked off.

.

“That went terribly.”

Aziraphale would have felt much more sympathy had the other even bothered to sound afflicted. “Prince Crowley—”

Slumped down on the stone bench next to him, Crowley rolled his eyes. “ _Just_ Crowley, Angel.”

“Your _Highness_ ,” Aziraphale continued irately. “What in _Hell_ did you _say_ to her?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied but Aziraphale could see he was biting back a smile. “I was an utmost gentleman, I assure you.” He gave that same _damned_ smarmy grin again. “Would I lie to you, Angel?”

The very one that made the Angel’s blood boil. “Recent history has proven that, yes, yes you can,” he sniffed. “Quite gleefully, might I add.”

Crowley made a show of pouting, but Aziraphale was not swayed. “Are you _ever_ going to let that go?”

The Angel sent him a flat look. “Not on your life.” No siree. Not after that first _humiliating_ encounter at the hands of Crowley’s deception.

The prince seemed to ruminate this for a while before sighing. “I’m _sorry_.” Huh. Aziraphale could **almost** believe that tone. “Honestly, I am. For how it made you feel.” Hesitantly, Aziraphale turned and was met with amber, pleading eyes.

 _Good grief._ Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, it’s not _my_ feelings you should be worried about!” He pinched his brows. “If Uriel makes a poor impression out of you, it may prove even _more_ difficult to court—”

“Not exactly what I was apologizing for but,” Crowley paused at the sight of the unimpressed look Aziraphale shot back at him. “Yeah. Sorry about that too, I guess. What can I say? Birds don’t exactly have the best sense of humor.” He smiled to himself, obnoxiously smug. “As _recent history_ has proven.”

Aziraphale let out a gasp. “ _Crowley_!” _Gracious,_ it was like he _wanted_ things to go amuck! “You honestly shouldn’t sound so, _so_ —”

Crowley gave a tilt of his head. “Dinner?” At the mere mention of it, Aziraphale cursed himself for his mood mellowing almost immediately. “To get your mind off it,” the prince continued. He eyed the Angel thoughtfully and Aziraphale fought the urge to squirm under his golden gaze. “There’ll be other opportunities, Angel. For now, let’s just enjoy the night.”

He already stood while Aziraphale uselessly floundered with his options; on the one hand, it would be best to regroup and discuss the meeting with Uriel thoroughly. That first impression seemed to have gone… _less-than-ideal,_ but it was better to learn from the experience and make good use of it. On the _other_ hand, it would be nice to get their minds off this first little misstep. And what better time to regroup than after filling their bellies to further fuel their conversation and ideas?

Crowley looked expectantly at him, hand outstretched to pull the Angel off his seat.

 _I talked myself into this, didn’t I?_ “Oh, very well,” he sighed, allowing himself to be whisked away for the night, much to his chagrin and much to Crowley’s glee.

Just like every other night, it would seem.

At least Crowley looked to be in high spirits. “Excellent! Say, how about we try that place with the thin pancakes that you like so much?”

“For the last time, Crowley, they’re _crêpes_ —"

.

If the past few weeks taught Aziraphale one thing, it was that Demons were an astonishingly generous bunch.

Of course, he’s only had a sample size of one thus far, but Aziraphale feels that he’s got the basics down at least.

Crowley had a flair for opulence. Of course, this wasn’t unusual. He’s a _prince,_ but Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling a slight shift as of late. Of course, Aziraphale still wanted to treat the prince as a guest of his kingdom; this often entailed Aziraphale scheduling meetings at lovely sights and monuments around the capital, the fine eateries and haunts Aziraphale frequented and could therefore vouch for in quality, and _yes_ sometimes it would be on Crowley’s coin—

(All right, discounting their first meeting with the oysters, it was _always_ on Crowley’s coin.)

— it seemed as though the prince’s natural desire for luxury eventually won out. Tender, juicy meats cooked to pinked perfection, fresh, flaky fish fillets lusciously seasoned, beds of vibrant and verdant vegetables, and ripe, refreshing fruits, assorted together in the varying styles of each of the four corners of the kingdom, far beyond a standard Principality’s paygrade to dine upon on a regular basis. But it was ever his fortune that as lavish the lifestyle of a prince must live (bordering on extravagance, really), Crowley was always more than willing to indulge Aziraphale’s tastes. He was delightfully thorough and thoughtful to his preferences, indeed.

Having been trained and stationed at the Eastern Gate for so long, Aziraphale’s mouth watered at the flavorings and spices of the North, the fine fragrance of the South’s wines, the luxury and decadence of the West’s desserts. He was quite eager to share them and their rich history, and Crowley…

Well he seemed to be content just to sit there and converse, letting the topic drift anywhere from the best plays that were in the theater to the rambunctious fun Crowley got into as a boy.

And to drink, of course.

 _Oh…_ Aziraphale sighed, breathing in the delicious aromas marrying together from the plate before him. _The Archangel of his choosing will be surely a lucky one!_

Aziraphale valiantly ignored the strange taste in his mouth at the thought. He succeeded with the aid of the lavish meal he dug into. The sea bass was cooked to perfection and paired nicely with the lemon jus and Aziraphale savored each lovely bite. _Ah_. _Bliss_.

Unfortunately, it appeared that Crowley didn’t quite agree. He had barely touched his meal and instead laid his elbow on the table ( _Poor etiquette,_ Aziraphale thought; he ought to remind him not to do such a thing in front of an Archangel) with the palms of his hand resting his chin and staring…rather intently at Aziraphale.

The Angel blinked. “Is the food not to your liking, Crowley?”

That seemed to startle him out of whatever reverie he was under. “Hm? Oh, no—no, I mean it’s good. Just…”

“Not hungry?” the Angel offered.

Aziraphale was certain that although the poor dear gave a brisk nod, he was indeed lying. He looked positively starving! Perhaps he just wasn’t one for fish?

“Well that was scrumptious,” Aziraphale sighed, already feeling the day’s stresses dissipate. Still, the matter of the next attempts of wooing should be discussed and Crowley was looking quite famished. Perhaps they could opt for another night in at his quarters. “What are you in the mood for?”

Something flashed in those golden eyes but Aziraphale couldn’t quite put a name on it. “Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

.

The second thing that the past few weeks taught Aziraphale was that Demons were an incredibly forgetful bunch.

Aziraphale eyed the state of his quarters: various articles of dark clothing strewn about, sashes, scarves, coats, all matters of jewelry, even a bloody _diadem_ just hanging on the post of his bed at one point—

Crowley _really_ ought to take better care of his things. But, Aziraphale learned from the last venture when he had dutifully gathered up the rich cloths and glittering treasures and brought them back—

Only to be met with an…uncomfortable look from the prince and some rubbish about him _Having another just like it somewhere in his wardrobe_ and _Save it, would you? For safe keeping_.

Whatever that meant.

“Oh! Before my mind slips from me,” Aziraphale said, compliant as ever in reminding Crowley about what _else_ he decided to stow away in the Angel’s quarters. “You forgot your—”

The prince waved off the comment before resuming his regular position on the Angel’s new sofa. “Keep it; I’ve got plenty more at home.”

“Crowley,” the Angel chided. “Your _ring_? The one bearing your family crest?”

Amber eyes briefly flickered to the item in Aziraphale’s hand, blinking before giving a careless laugh. “Keep it; I’ve got plenty more at home.”

 _This little—_ “Oh _you_ …” At the other’s playful grin, he had half a mind to throw it at his companion’s head, if not for sheer propriety holding him by the scruff of his neck. Crowley was a _guest_ after all. “Fine, I shall place it _here_ for safekeeping,” he announced, heading straight to the corner of his room that slowly turning into a prince’s lost-and-found, brimming with the other items Crowley has left and/or given him over the course of a few weeks. Books filled most of the shelves, a feather here, a vase of Imperial Snowdrops there, a constellation of gifts and memorabilia dotting the walls.

“Why not wear it?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the ring in his hands. _Has the alcohol gotten to him already?_ Aziraphale gave a (breathless) chuckle. “Sorry dear, I don’t think your ring would be a proper fit.” He gave a short demonstration, fitting the band and exhibiting how it stopped at the proximal joint of both his middle and ring finger.

Crowley protested to that immediately. “’course it will.” He gestured for the Angel to come closer and despite the warning signs, Aziraphale sighed and headed over anyways. Taking the Angel’s hand in his own, Crowley gave a bleary-eyed examination before plucking the ring, “Fits right…” and slipping it over Aziraphale’s pinky. “Here!” he deemed with a happy finality.

And it _was_ a perfect fit.

Crowley sat back, looking so pleased with himself that Aziraphale could only answer with a mild, “Oh. I guess it does.” He examined the ring closer under the flickering firelight, fighting the urge to pull away from the warmth of Crowley’s hand still holding his.

It was a pale gold unlike the dark, muted colors and vibrant reds that accentuated Crowley’s hair and eyes. It glittered, defining the details of a magnificent serpent sinking its fangs to the breast of a ferocious bird of prey. Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly feeling his mouth dry and cheeks flushed.

He looked up to find Crowley staring at him again. He seemed to be doing that quite often as of late.

“Right, then.” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of the ring, the crest, and why Crowley wanted it on his finger, but he’ll keep it on to appease Crowley. He finally dropped his hand and Aziraphale scurried back to his desk, a pounding in his chest he could only attribute to the wine not pairing well with the fish he had earlier.

Thankfully, Crowley didn’t comment on the matter any further. Instead, what he _did_ choose to comment on was much worse.

“Of course. I leave my feathers here after relaxing my poor, aching wings, and you use the primaries as—a quill?”

Aziraphale, paused, looking down, He was, indeed, using one of Crowley’s abandoned plumes as a quill. The Angel huffed. “You _said_ to do what I want with them—especially after you begged me not to throw them out.” It wouldn’t do to have loose-lipped maids discovering that the prince was _molting_ from finding the evidence in the trash and he couldn’t very well chuck them in the fireplace.

They were fireproof after all.

Crowley made a face. “I didn’t _beg._ ”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes. “Right, dear. And _I’m_ the one molting right now.”

“’m not molting!” he defended (rather poorly, in Aziraphale’s opinion). “’Just. Not acclimated to the weather here. That’s all.” He stretched the magnificent wings out, causing Aziraphale to startle at the large wingspan. “See? Does that look like a mess of molting to you?”

They weren’t. Either that, or Crowley was among the few birds that could molt gracefully without looking like a plucked chicken. 

Aziraphale bit back a smile. “No. I suppose not.” By the Queen herself, Crowley’s wings were _gorgeous_. Blacker than night, not a feather out of place despite how many he seemed to lose whenever he brought them out in Aziraphale’s quarters.

“Hey, Angel?” Aziraphale turned from his chair, glancing over to where Crowley was perched on the sofa. “Let’s see yours.”

Aziraphale wasn’t even aware he was making a face until Crowley pouted.

“C’mon give it a go. I’ve shown you mine already,” Crowley bargained. “It’s only fair.”

This time Aziraphale knew _exactly_ what kind of face he was making. It was one that lead the petulant prince to pout at him.

The third little oddity—err, _quirk_ he had noticed about his sample size of One, was that Demons could be…oddly affectionate.

At least, by Angel standards.

The sharing of feathers, the ~~demand~~ request to see his wings—

All quite…intimate things to do, but nothing out of the ordinary for close friends and families; a gift of feathers from one of a different flock was a declaration of forming new bonds, an act of adopting an outsider or joining as a family.

It made…for a strange warmth at the pit of Aziraphale’s belly and before it even fully registered, a flurry of white enclosed his peripheral vision.

They were smaller than Crowley’s. Not by much, mind you, but longer; he was made for gliding, soaring, rather than the wings of agile flyers like Crowley’s were.

And as such—they were also a terrible pain to preen.

“Don’t you ever take care of them?” Crowley gave a long once-over to each folded wing as he sat up. “Poor things look like they haven’t been groomed in ages.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale started, folding up his wings self-consciously. “I suppose it has been a while,” he murmured, tracing along a primary. Too long, really, since he’d had a partner to preen him. A partner to preen _for._ He beat back the unpleasant feeling as he cleared his throat. “I’m sure your staff keeps your wings well maintained, but not everyone—”

“They don’t.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, but…” He stumbled. “Your family must—”

At that, Crowley gave a bitter laugh. “Pfft. Nah.” He gave a meaningful look to the Angel and his ruffled wings, and to his own, lovely pair. “I wouldn’t let _them_ touch a feather.”

But whatever meaning it was, Aziraphale couldn’t understand.

* * *

Crowley didn’t know whether to thank his lucky stars or curse them to his kingdom and back for making the Angel so thick.

He’d watch on, unabashedly trailing his gaze from the way that soft, pink mouth opened and closed around every morsel of food, to the way his eyes fluttered shut, from way the Angel gave an enticing little _wiggle_ as he savored each and every bite, to the polite and delicate way he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the napkin.

The prince, with his food long forgotten, found that he’d much rather make a meal out of _this_ delectable Angel instead.

Crowley never thought of himself as a glutton for punishment, but watching Aziraphale indulge and sigh in honeyed bliss gnawed at the chains of his control to not simply take the Angel by the hand and lead him somewhere nice, dark, and far away from prying ears just to hear what else Crowley could do to elicit such wanton sounds from that sweet, sweet mouth.

Crowley shook those thoughts from his head; it wouldn’t do well to be this aroused during one of their meetings. Not with Aziraphale insisting that he wear something a little too tight around the trousers—

—but _ah_ those coy looks trailing over his form from the Angel himself was too difficult to ignore. Perhaps he’ll wear similar garb more often and hopefully speed up this entire ordeal of courting in the process.

And _ordeal_ was putting it lightly.

Angels, from the sounds of it, needed far more reassurance of compatibility before initiating acts of courtship, hence why Aziraphale was there to give some insider-details of the Archangels’ follies and fancies. It absolutely would _not_ do to initiate acts of courting without due introduction and shared interests.

Demons, however, tended to gauge all that _through_ acts of courting.

It’s not uncommon for the two to share meals and outings together, even if it ended with Aziraphale giving him a tour of the kingdom. In the beginning, Crowley preferred those days the most since he gets to see Aziraphale in his most natural element: _enjoying_ himself. But other times, the Guide’s sense of duty breaks through and Aziraphale will begin with such nonsense like “Oh Michael’s swordsmanship is _legendary,_ but she has quite the affinity for spears as of late, so for a courting gift—” and other such useless topics. These were the times that regrettably reminded Crowley that he’s here to wed one of those wankers instead.

So Crowley often deflected, steered the conversation away from unsavory waters, and navigated them towards more pleasant shores by innocently asking, “Right, good, but do you like the North’s dessert wines or do you prefer the South’s reds?”

Of course, Aziraphale will naturally start another hour or so lecture about why _nothing_ beats the Southern reds.

And some nights, Aziraphale will find a nice bottle of Southern red and Crowley is duly repaid with a sunshine smile and his Angel in a happy mood the next day.

Using that same method, Crowley gathered all sorts of interests from the Principality; from his preferences of bygone authors and poets, to the locations of his favorite bouquets of rare Imperial Snowdrops, to which shops baked the sweetest cakes and other delicacies.

A _fine_ ordeal, courting. But Crowley didn’t mind it.

When it came of official courtships, jewelry was traditional but outright presenting them to the Angel was tricky; he couldn’t very well _offer_ them as payment for his guidance and company as Aziraphale wasn’t took keen on adorning himself, save for a few choice items. So, Crowley did the next best thing: he took to _leaving_ them in the Angel’s little nest instead. An armband here, a bracelet there, and Crowley chuckled at the memory of the Angel carefully wrapping his own diadem before presenting it back to the prince with a pinched look. _My dear, I know you’re a bit scatterbrained, but please don’t leave such treasures in **my** room where I can be easily accused of stealing._

 _Let them know they’re gifts,_ Crowley ~~strongly hinted~~ suggested, but Aziraphale made that familiar downturn of his lips that let Crowley know that his “joke” wasn’t appreciated. He took back the headpiece and a few choice items. Obsidian blacks and bloody rubies were hardly Aziraphale’s style anyways.

Books, as scarce as they were in Hell, were Aziraphale’s favorite weakness. He’d never refuse such a rare gem for his collection, so Crowley had taken to sending requests from couriers with the _implication_ that they were being utilized in the name of courtly love. That _was_ their designated purpose, but decidedly _not_ in the way that would please the King, the next-in-line, nor the entirety of his own damned kingdom—but sharing that bit of information wasn’t necessary.

Wining and dining were a staple in all cultures across the lands, but it was especially appealing for Demons to seek a mate that could provide for them (and Crowley could, would, and was proving this aspect quite thoroughly) and it was nothing short of instinctively _pleasing_ to know Crowley could nourish and sate his future mate to his heart’s content.

Not only that, but since food and drink were _consumables_ , there’d be little evidence of the existence of said courting to point a finger at. Other Birds wouldn’t bat an eye if a prince went out to dine at expensive restaurants and demanded the finest of wines and liquor—oh, for him and his companion? Well he’s a _prince_ after all, he can’t settle for anything less. It was perfect, really. Crowley’s preferred method of courting for this very reason.

Another bite of his meal and his Angel moaned, face enraptured, absolute ecstasy painting across his features. Crowley carefully adjusted himself in his seat.

_Among other reasons._

By Crowley’s standards, his Bird was thoroughly courted—

But for better or worse, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it at all. It seemed that they were on very _separate_ wavelengths when it came to matters of the heart.

Which was really _such a damned shame_ because Crowley, on the other hand, was growing restless and his senses going wild.

 _Wild_ in the sense that if he didn’t see Aziraphale at least once that day, his instincts _itched_ and _gnawed_ at him from the marrow of his bones to ensure Aziraphale’s safety; in the sense that he was becoming in tune with the Angel’s needs— _It’s lunch time and he should be peckish by now, He’s brooding, Angels aren’t supposed to brood at least not **mine**_ _something’s wrong and I need to fix it, He’s hardly sleeping and is probably up all night reading those novellas I sent him last week so maybe we should schedule our meeting later in the morning;_ in the sense that it drove him absolutely _mad_ that he was not able to scent himself on Aziraphale— _because if **he** can’t claim him, then anyone else could just as easily walk by and snatch **his** little Bird up—_

Wild in _that_ sense.

His thoughts were plagued with it and Crowley grew antsier by the day. There were some things he could intercede on behalf of his own sanity, at least.

Although he couldn’t very well _scent_ Aziraphale’s form, his Bird’s little nest was helping soothe that ache. It was cluttered with shelves and collections upon collections of tomes, tales, diaries, and journals and most importantly— cluttered with things of _Crowley_.

His coats still hung by the rack, his pendant at the side of Aziraphale’s desk; wraps and cloths were strewn over by a chair, folded neatly on a shelf, inside a drawer that contained a variety of Aziraphale’s own outerwear, soft golds of bangles and rings tucked neatly away in a small chest within the trunk at the foot of Aziraphale’s bed—

Even his _feathers._

The first time Crowley had been given entry to Aziraphale’s quarters, he was ever-so-fortunate that Aziraphale had been distracted with hunting down a bottle of fine wine to share when those bloody _vestigial_ appendages popped from his back, leaving several feathers in its wake.

Crowley did the only thing one _could_ do at the time—aside from panic: sprawl himself over the sofa and take a nice, big, stretch.

When Aziraphale returned with a vintage bottle, he gave one raised brow at the Demon. _Making yourself comfortable, I see?_

Crowley barely tilted his pillowed head from the outdated cushions. _I’m trying but, this thing’s so ancient, it might disintegrate if so much as twitch._

(As a small aside, there was no way Hastur and Ligur believed him when he used his own coin to replace the battered old thing with something more opulent—something _sturdier._ All because the legs collapsed after Crowley gave one, hearty sneeze. They had sneered and mocked, rudely implicating that the causal activity likely had been a bit more _rigorous_ to break the sofa.)

It seemed customary now; every time Crowley so much as set foot in Aziraphale’s nest, the night-black wings would manifest without fail. Crowley didn’t know if this was some sort of deeply rooted predisposition left over from their origins as Angels. He just hoped he wouldn’t find himself doing some idiotic mating dance next that consisted of flapping his useless wings around.

But Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he _was_ being a bastard and teased him about his little _molting_ issue.

Which it **_isn’t_**!

_Crowley, please collect your feathers._

_Daft bird. What am I going to do with my own feathers?_

_Well. what am_ I _supposed to do with them?_

 _Make a cozy pillow or something. Anything’s better than this stiff rock,_ he had said with a wide gesture to the array of cushions Crowley haphazardly displaced.

~~He’d meant for that to be a joke, but he quickly warmed to the mental image of Aziraphale curled up to a pillow made of his own down.~~

The Angel could say what he liked about the issue; so long as he finds use for those feathers. It just seemed. Right, somehow. Even if it was currently being utilized as a writing tool—delicately held in Aziraphale’s plump hands, well-manicured fingers tapping and twirling the plume, the absent-minded brush of the pen against his mouth as he contemplated something— Crowley wouldn’t complain.

In fact, he couldn’t say much of anything as he watched. 

* * *

Surprisingly, it was Aziraphale that took heed of the last little courting gesture. One that Crowley hadn’t even realized he’d been doing.

Since the little _sofa_ incident, Hastur and Ligur had transitioned from merely ribbing him of the time he spent with Aziraphale to outright _stalking_ them. Every so often, he’d catch a whiff of brimstone and find the pair staring back at him unabashedly. It made Crowley downright uneasy, knowing that they were tracking his movements, their _activities._

Who knows what they’d report back to Hell…

Aziraphale was less perturbed by the whole thing. _They’re your footmen, Crowley. Shouldn’t you be glad they’re actually doing their jobs for once?_

But he relented under Crowley’s insistence that they meet at obscure areas and _then_ head out for the day. Of course he had to deal with the Angel’s insistence that _this is ludicrous!_ but Crowley won him over in the end.

He always does.

Getting Aziraphale to meet him at the designated destinations had been an ordeal of its own, however. It took quite a few trials and errors, but Crowley thought they had a pretty good system down by now. They’d already made four rendezvous points at this time, and it was going _swimmingly_ —

Even if the Angel couldn’t remember between the bandstand (4th rendezvous point) and the national library storeroom (the 2nd).

Hastur and Ligur—as well as any other Demons that came aboard with him— were out of sight for the past week. Still, that did little to ease the anxiety slowly coalescing within him. He’d taken to surveying the area, half an ear attending to whatever his Angel was prattling on about and another honed on dark whispers, covert murmurs, and listening for telltale wheezy little laughs.

He didn’t know if Hastur and Ligur had more contacts, if people started _talking_ and _speculating_ about how much time he spent with this particular Angel. Sure, he can spin the tale justifiably since Aziraphale was ultimately his _Guide_ to the kingdom, but sooner or later, people will be demanding _results_ and _progression_ towards his wooing to an Archangel and by then, Crowley will either need to have won Aziraphale over or—

“Crowley, could you please stop that?”

He startled, turning to the Angel. Aziraphale sighed and tugged him towards a quieter street and away from the throngs of people.

After taking a few lefts and the crowds walking by thinned down, Aziraphale forced the prince to look straight at him. He gave an annoyed huff, but there was no mistaking the worry in those stormy eyes. “You were making me dizzy.”

Crowley blinked. “What?”

There was a stern frown set upon the Angel’s lips now. “Did you even hear a word I was saying?”

A quick scan through rote memory and: “The musical. Yes. The Archangels will be there.” Right. That was why his Angel was wearing new attire: a coat, vest, and trousers of soft creams and off-whites—different from his usual robes. “You were showing me to the theater.”

Aziraphale nodded, suppressing a shudder. “Yes. The… _Sound of Music._ ” He made a face like he had just sampled an under-seasoned cut of steak. “Gabriel’s favorite.”

Crowley grimaced. _Ah_. That. Archangel…romance-business.

“Yes; honestly not my _favorite_ production but—there you go again!” Aziraphale gestured about him. “Kettling as we speak—”

“ _Kettling_ ,” Crowley spat, heavily in denial though he halted his movements and…was altogether unsure exactly how he went from being right in front of Aziraphale to standing just by his left. Right. “Ridiculous—”

His Guide shot him an exasperated look. “ _Circling_ , then. Stop it, you’re making me feel like—prey.” Aziraphale raised a brow at the convulsion of emotions that just flashed through the prince’s face. “Crowley, is everything all right?”

The prince snorted, none-too-delicately. “Fine. Just…fine.” _Prey?_

_For Go—Sa—for **someone’s** sake. _

He really didn’t get it, did he? 

“No, not _just_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale started, patiently. “You’ve been acting all out of sorts for the past few weeks. It’s been worrying me.”

Crowley fought back a wince. “It’s—”

_Nothing, **really.** I’m just **upset** and bloody **hormonal** because I can’t scent you, I can’t mark you, I can’t let anyone know you’re mine, and now I’m **paranoid** that my own men are going to turn against me because I’ve went and decided that I’m simply **gone** for you. _

But obviously, he couldn’t say all that. Not now. Not yet. “The, uh. Situation’s finally gotten to me, is all.” Crowley gave a swallow at the confused look on the Angel’s face. “I’m not used to it. The responsibility. It makes me...anxious,” he ended.

“Oh dear…” Bless— _curse_ this Bird for his cloud-puff soft heart and pleading eyes. “I thought you were adjusting so well.”

“Not your fault, Angel,” Crowley muttered. “New territory, too. Being in Heaven, that is. Can’t help but feel uneasy.”

Tentatively, Aziraphale reached for arm and Crowley wanted to take his hands again, just like that night under the stars weeks ago. Instead, Crowley let it hang limp as the Angel gave a comforting pat.

“My dear, I may not have my sword anymore, but you needn’t worry.” He gave a small, encouraging smile. “I promise to protect you.”

At that tender declaration, Crowley’s brain temporarily short circuited, causing him to trip over his own two feet.

“ _Crowley!”_

 _That_ felt like final nail in the coffin: he’s so deep in love that it’s physically ruining him _and_ his reputation.

* * *

Crowley was late. Again.

And when Crowley was late, it never ended very well for Aziraphale and his best-laid plans.

“Well, well.” A Demon stood before him, blocking entrance from the West Wing where Crowley and the rest of his legion resided. Dark hair and complexion with fiery eyes. Ligur. 

“If it isn’t the Guide,” another called out from behind the Angel, effectively blocking the exit. An unnatural pallor framing dark, dark eyes; Hastur, then.

Aziraphale had no time for this. He cleared his throat. “Hello, gentlemen. Is Prince Crowley ready?”

He turned to see Ligur shoot a knowing smile to his companion. “Off to another affair?” he asked, ignoring Aziraphale’s question entirely. Okay. Fine. 

The Angel decided to play along. “We’re meeting in regards to the progression of—”

“Right, right…” Hastur muttered dismissively. He inched closer to the Angel with a toothy grin. “Say, he _is_ wooing an Archangel, right?”

Aziraphale tried _very_ hard not to give him a look that would have implied insult to his intelligence. “Yes, of _course_. That’s what I’m here for—”

“Just making certain that things are going according to plan,” Ligur assured with a complacent smile.

Yet something behind that tone made Aziraphale think twice about his intentions. “Yes. No hitches or road bumps,” Hastur added with a smirk at the way the Angel stiffened as he came up behind him.

“No… _distractions,_ ” Ligur added with an intimidating step forward.

_Oh dear._

No wonder Crowley preferred spending time over at Aziraphale’s quarters if _this_ was what he had to put up with. He nodded primly despite his mounting annoyance. “Quite right, gentlemen. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that things are progressing as expected, and that the Prince will be meeting with Archangel—”

“Oh _good_ , good.” Ligur gave another shared smile with his Demonic mate. “Delightful to hear.”

“Yes,” Hastur nodded perceptively. “Especially since the prince has been exhibiting, well,” he gave a vague gesture. “You know…”

“Hastur,” his companion admonished with a scheming grin. “Careful, now. We wouldn’t want word to get out.”

 _That_ gave Aziraphale pause. “Word?” _Was something wrong with Crowley?_ “Exhibiting what, exactly?”

Hastur gave a mocking gasp. “Oh, you haven’t noticed?”

“The prince has been exhibiting a few…peculiar behaviors of late, hasn’t he?” Ligur prodded.

Before Aziraphale could refute, deny, or even concede, Hastur answered for him. “Indeed, he has. Tell me, Bird,” he said, turning to Aziraphale with a blade-sharp smile. “Do you know how Demons court?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that question; it certainly never crossed his mind that courting differed between their two kingdoms. “I’m sure just the same as anyone else.” After all, _love_ was Her creation. It shouldn’t vary so much…

_Right?_

Ligur gave a thoughtful hum, _kettling_ —but this time, leaving Aziraphale feeling _exactly_ like prey. “Not exactly. Not how you Birds court.” His eyes flashed with humor. “No preamble, no pussyfooting. Straight to the meat of the matter, as it were.”

“The courting itself is a means of gauging compatibility,” Hastur added, circling clockwise to his partner’s counter. “Gifts, usually _food_ and jewelry.” He gave a pointed look to the ring on Aziraphale’s finger. “And other preferences,” he added with a furtive smirk.

The tartan bowtie Aziraphale had eyed yesterday at a shop and found neatly packaged in the middle of his bed suddenly felt tight around Aziraphale’s throat. 

_Were they implying—_

_No. That’s…that can’t be, that’s—_

**_Preposterous_ ** _._

They must be messing with him. Playing him for a sucker. Ugh. It was no wonder Crowley could barely tolerate their presence. They were proving exceedingly poor company. Still, Aziraphale plastered on a placid smile. “Well! Then it seems our sessions have been fruitful!” His smile widened as the two paused in their movements, a few inches away from a full-on collision. “Crowley is ready to court, it would seem.”

There was a cruel smile etched on Ligur’s face. “Oh, I do believe you’re right, _Angel_.”

Aziraphale didn’t outwardly flinch. It was the same word Crowley had repeatedly called him; it was what he was: an Angel of the Queen, down to his very core of being. Yet somehow, it sounded so _wrong_ coming from this Demon’s lips.

And he really didn’t want to stay there any longer. “Right. In that case, with the air cleared, please let me through. I do believe we’re running a tad behind schedule now.”

Hastur pulled to the side, the maw of the West Wing entrance left open to him. “By all means, don’t let us keep you.”

Aziraphale gave curt nod of thanks before heading off.

“Yes, and oh,” Ligur called after him. “Send Prince Crawley our best wishes.”

At that, Aziraphale stopped. He swiveled around and marched straight towards the grinning pair. He shook his head. “Goodness, what a noisy lot you are. And to address your prince as such?” He crossed his arms, a bite of authority in his tone. They may be _guests_ but that didn’t mean they had free reign to do as they pleased. “Have you no tact? We’re all working on the same side, here! And your prince is making a noble effort for peace. That ought to deserve some respect from his men.”

At that, the façade cracked, even for just a second. “ _The same side_ ,” Ligur sneered. “What do you think this is about, hm?” He took a step forward, surprised to find that Aziraphale held little to no fear in his eyes. “Have you no brains, little Bird?” Merely contempt.

“Leave him be,” Hastur admonished. “He’ll find out soon enough.”

The Angel wisely paid little heed to that statement; probably another taunt to rile him up again. “Hmph.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes but turned all the same. “I bid you two gentlemen a good night.”

“Good night, _Principality_ Aziraphale,” Ligur intoned with a mocking, sweeping bow.

The pair watched as the Angel made his way through the halls and to the Prince’s quarters, his footsteps echoing all the while.

Then, somewhere in the distance, an echoed, _“Oh. Angel! You’re here already?”_

_“Yes, we need to be there by dusk, I told you this already!”_

_“Ah, right, right…”_

Hastur gave a raspy chuckle. “Rather feisty, isn’t he?” There was a cruel upturn of his lips. “I can see why Prince Crawley has his eye on him.”

* * *

The carriage ride to the theater was a silent one. Mostly because Crowley was sulking at the prospect of spending the next few hours listening to inane singing, earworm-inducing tunes, and approaching yet _another_ Archangel by his own Angel’s design.

For Aziraphale, the ride over was a rather pensive one.

He couldn’t help but replay their words, blood burning beneath his skin at their blatant disrespect and _insinuations._ But…that disconcerting meeting might have given Aziraphale insight and an answer to all of Crowley’s strange behavior.

But was it true? Was Crowley _truly_ exhibiting courtship behaviors?

_Was he ready to take the next step?_

He couldn’t tell for sure. After all, Crowley was right in saying that his footmen were a wretched bunch, though they were lenient enough to let him do he pleased so long as he got himself out of trouble. Aziraphale knew that logically, he shouldn’t pay heed to them. Surely, Aziraphale would _notice_ by now if Crowley had been showing signs of interest, signs of _love_ —

He was a Principality, after all.

“Penny for your thoughts, Angel?” Aziraphale turned to see Crowley, once more slumped over in his seat. _Goodness, can’t he sit straight for once?_

“Careful, dear,” Aziraphale warned with a smile. “In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.”

He gave a teasing grin. “Brooding, then?”

“What—no,” Aziraphale assured. “Just. _Reflective_.”

Crowley nodded. “Ah. So you _are_ brooding.” He gave a chuckle at the derisive snort he received in turn. Golden eyes flickered from the Angel’s face to his vestments. “You’re wearing it, I see.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale straightened the bow with a pleased smile. “Yes, it’s lovely. Thank you.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Think nothing of it. I think I did the tailor a favor, taking that thing off his hands. Really, Angel? _Tartan?”_

“It’s _stylish_ ,” Aziraphale countered. “And I _adore_ it.”

An indulgent smile made its way to Crowley’s lips as he leaned back in his seat, looking quite accomplished with himself.

Aziraphale nearly let out a gasp.

It finally clicked into place. The _gifts,_ the _food_ , the books--! It all made _so_ much sense now. And Aziraphale was _frustrated_ that he couldn’t see it sooner. That he couldn’t _help_ Crowley sooner.

Crowley was obviously exhibiting courtship behaviors to see how Aziraphale would react to it! That way he could gauge how an Angel would respond to the practices before displaying them in front of his intended Archangel!

It was brilliant, really! The marriage of two cultures shouldn’t just be Crowley forced into the traditions of Angels, but a collaboration between two courtship efforts!

It was…decidedly odd. But Crowley was an imaginative and decidedly odd Demon to begin with.

 _Still…_ Aziraphale thought. _Practice…for courtship?_

It was beyond odd—it was _mad_. But perhaps it’s just imaginative enough to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale: Pure of heart. Dumb of ass. I’m sorry, Crowley. The light in your sky, the love of your life, is a bit thick.
> 
> Shout out to Binging with Babish’s “Jurassic Park’s Chilean Sea Bass” recipe. 
> 
> Also vultures, do not in fact, circle their prey. 
> 
> I am so sorry for this mess lmao


	4. Step 3: (If Necessary) Seek Reinforcements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley tries his hand at poetry and Aziraphale is swept of his feet (literally).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay~

It wasn’t that Aziraphale disliked his former mentor. It wasn’t that at all. He respected Gabriel as a trainer, a warrior, and to an extent, a leader. The Archangel had taken his less-than-adequate swordsmanship as a young trainee and with…questionable methods, primed him to become a Principality with his own platoon. 

“ _Aziraphale_!” a voiced boomed out from the lobby, causing the rest of the patrons to scurry to the auditorium.

That being said, he still found the Archangel all sorts of terrifying.

Aziraphale stilled and felt an oncoming dread creep into the very marrow of his bones. “ _Oh bugger_ ,” he almost whimpered, preparing to cake on a delighted façade. He turned, facing the handsome, immaculately dressed Archangel with a tentative grin. “Gabriel! How nice to see you again—” only to be drawn into a rough handshake and given a rougher clap on the back.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale _disliked_ his former mentor.

It was just that Gabriel had always been too much.

“It certainly has been a while, hasn’t it? Good thing too—Sandalphon couldn’t make it and though I definitely have no qualms about seeing the musical myself, I’m glad to have run into you!” He beamed cordially, a stark contrast to the iron grip he currently had on Aziraphale’s aching shoulder. Violet eyes widened as he took in his former subordinate. “By the Queen herself—look at you!” A frown marred his face and Gabriel shook his head in displeasure. “Our time apart has _not_ been kind to you, sunshine.”

Aziraphale let out a nervous laugh, hands drawing together behind him in a practiced, self-soothing manner. “I-is that so? Things have been all right on my end,” he offered hesitantly before his peripheral view caught sight of a redhead with a deep-set scowl. “Oh, err—where are my manners…” He stepped aside, hoping, wishing, _praying_ that Crowley would at least make a single effort to mingle this time. “Prince Crowley has been—ah, looking forward to this…” He stumbled for the words, “…fine production.”

“Our theater’s best!” Gabriel boasted with pride, extending an arm. “And my personal favorite.” He gave a tight handshake as the prince reluctantly reached back, making Crowley wince with more annoyance than pain. “Good to formally meet you, Prince Crow, I’m sure our Kingdom’s been treating you well.”

“That’s _Crowley_ ,” the prince corrected with narrowed eyes, lips tugged downwards. “And sure. No complaints so far.” Somehow, his scowl deepened. “ _Gabe._ ”

Aziraphale felt his dread multiply malignantly.

Oh dear…this would not do. This would not do at all.

Thankfully, Gabriel was unruffled by the retort. “Excellent!” He turned, placing his hand back on Aziraphale and startling the Principality out of his anxieties, “Say, Azi—why don’t you and your friend join me this evening! Catch up on good times!” while making room for new ones.

(Meanwhile Crowley absolutely _bristled_ at the unbidden contact between the two. Also, “ _Azi_ — _?!_ ”)

“We’d be _happy_ to join you Gabriel,” Aziraphale replied brightly, with a nervous energy and wide, pleading eyes that begged the prince, _Please. Play nice_. “Isn’t that right, Prince Crowley?”

Begrudgingly, Crowley would.

“Good! You rarely disappoint, sunshine.”

If this _d_ _a_ _mned chicken would **let go** of his mate. _

As if sensing Crowley’s mounting irritation, those violet eyes landed on the prince with faux civility. “Oh, where are _my_ manners—Azi and I used to go way back!” And yes, Crowley _did_ know, and Crowley _also_ knew that he didn’t like the slimy look in the Archangel’s eyes. “He used to be my Principality, you know.”

“Oh, I’ve heard,” Crowley replied evenly, though he was seconds away from grinding his teeth. 

But then that look was gone, making Crowley wonder if that eerie gleam was actually there to begin with. “My little passion-project,” Gabriel declared with an infuriating tone of arrogance. “Turned this powderpuff into a lean _,_ mean fighting machine!”

The Angel beside him nodded hesitantly. “Erm, uh, yes. Good times.” Crowley frowned at the evident unease Aziraphale was exhibiting.

But then Gabriel started opening his blasted mouth again and Crowley swore he’d rip the Archangel’s arm off if he kept pulling at his mate like that. “And you know, Azi, it breaks my heart to see you getting all— _soft_ ,” he said, pouting as he gestured to the Angel’s entirety. “All our training, all that blood, sweat, and tears— gone to waste!”

There was a wounded look on Aziraphale’s face. “Well, I…” And Crowley immediately wanted to take that look away, whatever it took. 

Including disposing of the d _a_ mned chicken continuing to cluck about. “I _know_ it’s a time of peace and prosperity for our Kingdom now, a time of _indulgence_ in life’s simpler pleasures…” He gave pause, sending a pointed look to Aziraphale’s rounded middle. “But that’s no excuse to overdo it, right?”

“There’s hardly anything wrong with enjoying oneself,” Crowley defended, stepping in between the two. Like _hell_ he was letting that smarmy prick trail his disgusting eyes over his Angel’s perfectly plump form. 

And had Crowley not been distracted with fuming rage, he might have noticed the flash of malevolent delight glinting in the Archangel’s smile. “Quite right, Prince,” he amended, yet made no further attempts at apology. “I suppose I just have a hard time letting go. Decades of fighting in the frontlines will do that to you, isn’t that right, Azi?” But before the Principality could reply, the Archangel gave a hapless shrug and a casual glance at Crowley. “But of course, when one’s born with a silver spoon in his mouth—” 

Crowley could practically feel the desperation behind his placating voice as the Principality spoke, stepping out from behind him. “But we’re here now, out on this—lovely night to enjoy ourselves! So, why don’t we carry on and do just that?” He gave a pleading look to the both of them and Crowley could barely keep himself from calling the night off altogether, Aziraphale’s hard work and planning be damned.

Because even if Crowley _didn’t_ find himself stupidly head-over-ass for his Angel, there was no way in all the Kingdoms of Heaven and Hell he’d be tying the knot with this disgrace of a chicken.

 _Especially_ not with how said chicken drew his mate into a discomfiting half-embrace. “Hah! That’s what I like about you, Azi. Forever an optimist.” Crowley was nearly hissing at the way Aziraphale flinched under the Archangel’s attention. It was still unclear whether the Archangel took any notice or if he simply chose to ignore it all. “And I do see your point. Never thought I’d be here, enjoying one of my favorite productions with one of Hell’s royalty.” And then that jovial demeanor was gone, snuffed out like a light. “And one of my own, currently…servicing him.”

This time, Crowley didn’t miss the implication. “Assigned to me by the Queen herself, by my stroke of fortune.” He held his gaze steadily to the Archangel’s, _daring_ him to comment any further. “No doubt She gave me her very best.”

Gabriel’s smile widened but it held no warmth. “Is that so?” He gave a cold chuckle, slipping on the mask of pleasantries once more. “Excellent to hear!” Another rough clap to Aziraphale’s back and the tension dissipated for at a moment as the Archangel drew away and walked towards the auditorium. “Keep up the good work, Azi—you’re doing your Kingdom proud. Now let’s get to our seats, shall we?”

Crowley had half a mind (okay, perhaps almost 9/10ths of a mind) to take the by the Angel arm and leave dear old _Gabe_ there alone with his showtunes, but from one, _imploring_ look on Aziraphale’s face for him to _Please, please at least give it a chance_ , the prince relented in his escape.

Crowley, decidedly, did _not_ torch the whole place down, Archangel and all, while leaving off into the night with his Angel in tow.

 _Damn_.

.

It went…

No bad. But not good.

Crowley never particularly understood _why_ box seats were among the favorites of the rich and elite when it offered such a poor view, but if he had to garner a guess, it probably had more to do with the social aspect rather than the practical one. It was just his luck he had little interest in the show, otherwise he would have ended up with a crick in his neck by the end of it. No, instead Crowley was preoccupied with his thoughts—something he’d spent many an hour ruminating upon as of late.

Thoughts of how to wriggle out of this inconvenient _marriage_ business, thoughts on how to get his bloody Angel to recognize _d_ a _mn, fine courting_ when he sees one, and after tonight, thoughts on how to seek petty vengeance on a loudmouthed chicken.

And sure, he might have spent the majority (all) of the time _present_ (like hell he was leaving Aziraphale alone with the likes of him), but he’d be damned if he made any efforts to be attentive to anything Gabriel had to say. Thankfully, Gabriel was too focused on the production, the earworm-inducing music, and—though he’d deny it and rain Holy Water and Sacred Fire on those who would vouch on it—singing along to the scores.

Aziraphale was, unfortunately and quite literally, trapped between the two. A glance to his right found his former mentor in rapt attention to the stage below, unearthing…rather unsavory memories of many nights similar he spent under the Archangel’s tutelage. A look to his left found Crowley, quiet and emphatically _not_ enjoying himself.

The Principality gave a sigh at the tense and brooding look on Crowley’s face and a twang of sympathy reverberated in his heart. _Poor dear_. He must be losing hope… First Uriel, and now Gabriel? Slim pickings indeed… Still, they can’t give up hope now! ...Even if it does all seem so hopeless.

At the very least, he can offer Crowley some comfort.

Tentatively, he reached over to where the prince’s hand gripped the armrest and covered it with his own. He gave a reassuring squeeze and a small smile as Crowley turned to his side questioningly.

And unbeknownst to him, making Cowley damn-near combust on the spot.

There was perhaps one, awkward moment where it completely slipped Aziraphale’s mind that he could have and very well _should_ have removed his hand at any second now, and one, tense moment where Crowley almost felt brave enough to turn over his palm so he could entwine his fingers with his Angel’s—

But then Gabriel started bawling in pure joy at the scene below and the moment slipped from Crowley’s grasp as Aziraphale withdrew and turned away, his eyes suddenly trained to the dancing and swell of the orchestra below.

And Crowley remained, silently cursing and fuming in silence.

_Maybe the place will go down in flames after all._

.

“Now wasn’t that just the finest piece of art you’ve ever feasted your eyes on!”

Aziraphale gave another practiced smile, absentminded and pacifying. “I suppose it was quite enjoyable, yes. Just like every other time I’ve seen it.”

And for once in Gabriel’s long history with Aziraphale, he finally commented on the doubt in his ex-subordinate’s tone. “Yes, well…you’ve always had different taste, eh?” That gave Aziraphale pause as Gabriel chattered on. “Still sticking your nose in those tomes? Getting lost in fairytales and the like?” He gave another booming laugh. “You and your quirky little hobbies! I’ve always told you they’d go straight to your head—and now they’ve gone straight to your stomach!”

He gave a self-satisfied chuckle at his wordplay while Aziraphale had to physically restrain Crowley from getting himself eviscerated by an Archangel.

Then, as though sudden inspiration struck down from the higher heavens themselves, “Say, instead of just lazing about, why don’t you two join me for a little training session some time? That ought to get your blood pumping!”

“Oh, there will be _blood_ —” Crowley growled out while Aziraphale sank his manicured nails into the prince’s arm in warning.

~~Crowley did _not_ yelp. Such a reaction was absolutely beneath him. Even if his Angel left marks.~~

Aziraphale gave a wide, harried smile. “Ah! You know, that’s a good idea—always good to try something new, a break from the old routine! But I, err, certainly don’t want _intrude_ upon your time with Prince Crowley—”

The Angel thoroughly ignored the noise of immediate protest from said prince. _Sorry, Crowley. You’re on your own with this one_.

Hopefully he’d forgive Aziraphale of his imminent betrayal.

Gabriel was undeterred, a charming, intimidating grin breaking across his face. “It’s not a problem on my end, sunshine! In fact, I’d love it if you’d join in. Besides,” he leaned in, smile somehow more hostile than before. “You really ought to _lose the gut_ ,” And then the smile was gone, wiped clean off along with the bright, jovial veneer. There was nothing but with sheer displeasure in those cold, violet eyes. “It’s unbecoming of a warrior trained by my hand.”

Aziraphale gave a hard swallow, an echo of a different time burning in his memory. This was not guilt. Guilt was the acrid bite one tasted at the back of their tongues when they did something wrong. This hit like the nausea of shame. He _was_ what was wrong.1

Gabriel, content to disregard the split-second slip in his spirited, genial mask, continued with blithe encouragement. “Aw, come on! It’ll be just like old times! What d’ya say, sunshine?” And with that, he gave a ~~painful~~ playful punch to Aziraphale’s shoulder, drawing a pained whine from him—

And at that, Crowley _snapped._

He was quick to pull Aziraphale away, putting distance and himself between his Angel and Gabriel. His blood boiled in his veins, judgment quickly clouding with fury. A part of him knew that he wouldn’t fare well in an actual clash against an Archangel, but he’ll be _damned_ if he allowed anyone to treat Aziraphale like that. If he had been a lesser Demon, he would have gone for the Archangel’s throat for _touching_ his mate alone.

But the snarl he let out was already enough to get the Archangel to back down.

Infuriatingly unruffled as always, Gabriel just grinned, an eerie glow of self-satisfaction in his eyes as he made a gesture of surrender. “Alrighty then. Maybe I’ll catch you two some other time.”

* * *

Aziraphale was—rightly— _furious. “What was **that**?!” _

“That was me being pissed right off, that’s what.” But for all Aziraphale’s ire, he still made no efforts of removing the Demon attached to his arm.

The Angel took a deep, calming breathing; it wouldn’t do him any good to raise his voice. Not when the coachmen were already sending them strange looks as they exited the theater, the prince looking ready to murder and clutching onto Aziraphale tightly. “Crowley, you had no right to—”

“He had no _right_ to speak to you that way—” Crowley stifled a growl, tightening his hold. “Angel, was _that_ what you had to put up with all this time?!”

Aziraphale hesitated and that was enough of an answer for Crowley. “Gabriel can be— _abrasive_ and a bit boorish—”

“He’s a bleeding wanker is what he is—”

“And my former superior! An _Archangel—_ Crowley, we can’t forget what we’re here for!” He felt the prince beside him stiffen, but that did little to appease Aziraphale’s panic and frustration. “You have to get along with at least one of them and we’re running out of options!”

Crowley stared him down in outrage. “ _I WOULDN’T CHOOSE THAT OBNOXIOUS CHICKEN IF THEY HAD ROASTED HIM IN HELLFIRE AND SERVED HIM WITH A SIDE OF CHIPS!_ ”

“Bah!” Aziraphale had half a mind to shake the Demon off and cross his arms. Instead, he heaved a deep, bone-weary sigh. “You’re being impossible.” The other half was simply too exhausted to do anything but bicker.

Fortunately, Crowley didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue any longer on that matter. “He shouldn’t have touched you,” he murmured, head resting on the curve of Aziraphale’s shoulder, wisps of red locks tickling the Angel’s chin. “You didn’t like it and he _knew_.”

“He’s…” _Always like that_ didn’t sound like a very good excuse. “Really not that bad,” Aziraphale ended mildly. 

Crowley snorted. “Really not that good, either.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale started, but looking at the debilitated Demon beside him, felt a reluctant warmth starting to bloom. _Right_. Crowley nearly _attacked_ an Archangel on his behalf. And here Aziraphale was, berating him. “I do thank you for trying to get me out of that…situation,” he said, softly, gently. “It was very…kind of you.”

“ _Ngk_.” _Well_. Aziraphale held back a snort of laughter. That was an interesting noise. “Keep it to yourself. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

A rueful grin made its way to Aziraphale’s lips. “Right. Of being a nuisance?”

“The very best out there,” the prince crowed, grip loosening on Aziraphale’s arm. Oh good; he can almost feel the circulation returning. “Can’t have the rest of the Birds letting their guard down around me.”

“Oh, I can assure you. After tonight, that won’t be a problem,” Aziraphale muttered, rolling his eyes at the gleeful little chuckle that got out of Crowley. Word would likely spread of his actions tonight and while humor wasn’t Aziraphale’s preferred coping mechanism for the onslaught of disaster, if it made Crowley feel better, then he’d go along with it.

Aziraphale nodded patiently, needing to remind himself of Crowley’s position. While Crowley didn’t have the luxury of marrying out of love, it didn’t necessarily mean that he couldn’t _fall_ in love with one of his set suitors. The process might be far more arduous given…certain personality differences, but there was still a fighting chance! And if the thought of tying his life to Gabriel was out of the question—

It was up to Michael, then.

~~Or Uriel if she was feeling particularly forgiving. Which was highly unlikely. So, Michael it was.~~

_My, what a headache._

“You know, it’s been a rather long few weeks, hasn’t it?” Crowley gave a sleepy noise of assent, relaxing himself comfortably against the Angel. “The night might not have gone as…planned.” That earned him a snort from the prince beside him. “But I think things will be much better in the morning.”

Crowley made another soft noise of skepticism and Aziraphale decided to ignore it.

Instead, the Angel gave a hum of contentment, already picturing his cozy little reading nook and picking up where he left off from that small collection of novellas Crowley had gifted him earlier. “It’s good to get away from it all every once in a while, right? You know, a little rest and relaxation does the body an immense amount of good. Gabriel never saw the benefits of course, but—”

And unbeknownst to Aziraphale, that’s where Crowley stopped listening.

Crowley was usually more than content to let his Angel prattle on, his sweet voice lulling the prince’s frazzled senses and melting the day’s stresses away. While his Angel had his books and flickering firelight to settle down for during the night, Crowley preferred down-stuffed pillows, silk sheets, and pleasant dreams about cherubic cheeks and sea-storm eyes.

But, oh. That’s quite the idea.

A vacation?

 _That_ he can do.

* * *

It had become a regular occurrence to find something amiss in his room after Crowley was shortly introduced to his quarters. Even more so after Aziraphale ~~regrettably~~ acquiesced the prince to _Come whenever you’d like._

Usually they were small, delightful surprises: fresh fruits and pastries, first editions of his most cherished poems and prose, and bouquets of his favorite flowers. Being a Guide to royalty certainly had their perks and Aziraphale could hardly let such lovely gifts of gratitude go unused and underappreciated.

Sometimes, they were more of Crowley’s clutter that the forgetful Demon had left behind after a nightcap, to which Aziraphale dutifully stowed away for safekeeping. That, or more of his feathers that Aziraphale outfitted to quills.

But this was the first time he’d found a letter, sitting innocuously by his desk.

“Oh? What’s this…” Aziraphale inspected the bruise-red of the wax seal, immediately recognizing the outlines of the royal serpent and its winged adversary locked into battle.

 _Crowley_. _Hardly surprising._

“How in Heaven does he manage to sneak in here every night…” he murmured, perhaps a bit more unconcerned than he ought to be at the thought of his nightly intruder. He turned the note over, finding _Angel_ penned at the back. Obviously for him, then. Aziraphale broke the seal cleanly down the middle and unfurled the message inside.

It was written in Crowley’s elegant script and, to Aziraphale’s delight, appeared to contain a poem.

_To the Angel I hold so dear_

_Where our two horizons begin,_

_My heart lays in wait for you here_

_A kiss in rose, pleasure in white_

_A crown, a ring, a mark within_

_To the Angel I hold so dear_

_Stars scatter athwart my night—_

_A heart’s fall, a lover’s flight,_

_My heart lays in wait for you here_

_I lay in worship at your light_

_That psalms and hymns can only sing_

_To the Angel I hold so dear_

_My soul rests at our haven’s height_

_Where lines of skies and earth shall thin,_

_My heart lays in wait for you here_

_Detest not my grievous plight_

_That I should love with tender sin_

_To the Angel I hold so dear_

_My heart lays in wait for you here_

Aziraphale brought a hand to his lips, finding a smitten smile forming there against himself. _“Ohhh…”_ It was… _lovely_. Aziraphale couldn’t help the quiver in his heart at the villanelle, the longing and ardor painted so beseechingly in its words. The pure exaltation for his _dearest_ Angel Crowley was able to put into words was enough to make any Angel swoon—

Was this all part of Crowley’s practice in courting? Perhaps he wanted Aziraphale’s opinion on the matter? Sure, the stresses were off, a few syllables were miscounted and don’t quite line up, but it was _honestly_ a rather sweet attempt.

Perhaps Crowley wanted to send this to assuage Aziraphale’s fears and anxieties—to let the Angel know that he was still taking his duties seriously. Still…why a villanelle? Sonnets were preferred by most Angels, though Aziraphale could hardly fault Crowley for his choice. The incentives to write in villanelle were to draw attention to a certain theme through its refrains. The repetition to enforce and enhance an idea, to highlight and emphasize an important…

 _Hm?_ Stormy eyes read through the stanzas again. _“My heart lays in wait for you here…_ He’s waiting for his lover…he’s—waiting somewhere?” Aziraphale pulled out his chair and studied the note. “Oh, of course! Why else would he choose that refrain!” Aziraphale let out a pleased laugh. _He’s disguising a designated meeting time and place in a love letter! How clever!_

The Prince was an imaginative one, indeed!

A grin stole across Aziraphale’s face. He _did_ love a good puzzle. “Let’s see…the first has the imagery of horizons… perhaps the sky? Is this referring to time? _Where two horizons begin_ —oh! Sunset! And here again, the reference night and stars!”

Aziraphale was feeling quite giddy now. Brilliant! He had a time…now all he needed was a location.

“Let’s see… _Where lines of skies and earth shall thin_ …” Aziraphale hummed. He couldn’t think of any place he took Crowley that contained anything like that. But… “Could he mean the cliffsides?” It certainly fit the description of where the sky and earth meet. The Angel scratched his head. “But where? A fall, a flight…it certainly would make sense. Perhaps the peak of the bluffs?”

A memory suddenly sparked in his mind.

_A heart’s fall, a lover’s flight—the falls! Over at one of the cliff’s faces! Of course!_

Aziraphale felt his insides flutter with anticipation. “This is rather exciting!” A code written in poem; a covert scheme designed for lovers—

It was all _very_ romantic.

But one thought niggled at the back of his mind. What could Crowley need a _fifth_ secret rendezvous point for? A recent memory of Crowley’s footmen bubbled in his mind and Aziraphale could only hope their other locations haven’t been compromised. He also hoped this lovely poem wasn’t just another step-down for Crowley and his paranoia. He’d been really worrying Aziraphale as of late…

Aziraphale still hadn’t worked out the entirety of the poem either. Especially the second, fourth, and final stanza, the one made out to Crowley’s _Angel_. Those seem entirely devoted to…well displaying devotion. In such a _lovely_ way too…

The second stanza seemed to depict methods of ownership; the fourth, a statement of adoration; the final, an…apology. But for what? What aggrieved Crowley that he’d think his affections wouldn’t be accepted by the future Archangel he has his heart set on?

His chest tightened and a sliver of sadness snaked its way down his gut.

Maybe he can ask Crowley about its meaning later.

Turning the page over, a few verses written on the back gave Aziraphale pause before he broke out into another smile. “Oh, a limerick? How delightful!”

Or, at least it was. Until Aziraphale took a good, long gander at it.

_While your coy conduct enchants and enthralls me_

_I dream of revering and ruining your entirety—_

_To the Angel of my doomed desire_

_My body hungers in salacious fire_

_While I lay frustrated and unfulfilled in plea_

Aziraphale dropped the letter as if it burned. Well. It might as well have with the way the apple of each cheek flushed a lovely red, a hot rush of blood tingling underneath his skin. _What in Hell—_

_Just who did Crowley intend to send this to?!_

The Angel brought his hands to his face. That’s right. It was _his_ moniker on the page, wasn’t it? Of course. This was _Crowley,_ after all. Exasperation extraordinaire. Annoyance Aficionado. Prince of perturbance.

“That _little_ —” He can imagine it now—Crowley throwing his head back in peals of laughter at the thought of Aziraphale _blustering_ and blushing at the _read_ of such lascivious imagery—

 _Oh no_. Aziraphale will _not_ be played for a sucker this time!

* * *

It had taken him an embarrassingly long amount of time to come up with that blasted poem and Crowley could only hope that—at the very least—Aziraphale enjoyed it. But if all were to go according to plan, Aziraphale would get the intended message of their now official, _fifth_ rendezvous point.

The falls roared loudly in the distance, and Crowley drew himself up tighter. He had debated all into the earliest hours of dusk whether or not it had been a good idea to send the poem rather than a more… _overt_ invitation to meet him at the borders of the capital, but something told Crowley that the fastest way to Aziraphale’s heart would be through some fanciful, written word.

~~Not through his stomach, apparently. He already tried that.~~

And if all were to go according to plan, not only would Aziraphale find this place, but he…might not even _mind_ the fact that Crowley had essentially and humiliatingly bared his heart and soul to the blasted Bird that had captured both so effortlessly and entirely.

Even if the villanelle didn’t paint a vivid enough imagery, he was sure the limerick got his point across.

And if all were to go according to plan and Aziraphale _didn’t_ run for the hills at the very thought of his charge professing his undying love and searing lust for him, then perhaps this little vacation had means of becoming so much _more_ than just a proposal for rest and relaxation.

In fact, if Crowley got his way and if Aziraphale was enthusiastically amendable to it, there wouldn’t be a whole lot of resting to be had…

In his pleasant reverie, Crowley almost missed the flurry of white at the periphery of his vision. “Oh?” He turned, just as Aziraphale tucked away those lovely, snowy wings. A shy smile greeted him, and Crowley felt his heart and hopes soar. At the very least—Aziraphale wasn’t running for the hills. “Clever Bird—you made it!”

“Yes, well,” _Gracious,_ his Angel looked lovely painted in streaks of setting suns. “It was quite clever of you to hide the coordinates in the guise of a poem.” He looked to Crowley with an air of admiration and— a crippling lack of adulation (or even abhorrence, Crowley could take that) and Crowley knew then and there the double entendre of his poem probably flew right over those cloud-fluff curls. “Well done,” he chirped, plopping down beside the prince.

Crowley, rather valiantly, tried not to be too stung by the crushing defeat. “Haha…yeah. In the guise of a—right.” _There goes two hours of honest work._

_Maybe next time I should just stick with I LOVE YOU, YOU DAFT, BLOODY BIRD._

“So why was it that you wanted to meet here of all places?” The Angel peered over at the falls, admiring the shimmer of droplets absorbing the melding colors of fire and settling dusk. Crowley, in turn, couldn’t help but admire the romantic glow that basked the Angel in colors of eventide. Still, Crowley couldn’t just go ahead and say something positively stupid like _I always imagined taking your hand and asking you to run away with me by the setting of the sun,_ now could he? “And how did you know about this place to begin with?”

But _that_ question, Crowley can safely answer. “Oh, just listening on strategy meetings and all. May not have participated, but the king loved his planning.” He gestured to beyond the edge. “This was regarded as one of the least-defended sectors of your capital. Not that I blame your lot— you’ve always had the advantage of the skies, whereas we had to make do with slithering on our bellies on the ground, furthest from God’s light.” He gave a bitter smile. “No, this place wouldn’t have been a good strategic point of invasion at all, not with the unforgiving seas below; the jagged rocks jutting out beneath the waves are a good deterrent, and the faces are too slippery after being molded by the waves for as long as they have.”

A tilt of his head and a question in his Angel’s voice: “What of it, Crowley?”

And Crowley, ever a flair for the dramatics, merely gave his darling, dearest Angel a smirk, “Well, let’s just say that it’s a good thing the war didn’t progress any more than it did. Because your lot definitely wouldn’t have seen this coming,” and a snap of his fingers.

.

Several things happened at once.

There was a sharp splash of _something_ monstrously _big_ cresting over the waves, a bellow of a mighty beast muting the rush of the falls. Then, a flood of winds suddenly halted as a mass of midnight-black scales, leathery wings, and razor-sharp claws blocked the stunning view of the sunset. And finally, golden, slitted eyes greeted Aziraphale’s vision, sending a none-too-friendly bolt of primordial fear racing down his spine.

_Oh bugger._

But Aziraphale was first and foremost a warrior and, much to his chagrin, Gabriel _did_ train him well. “ _CROWLEY!”_ He grabbed the prince, putting himself between him and the beast. “Get behind me—” And then the creature _roared_.

It was the stuff of horror and magic and after seeing all the individual pieces assembled neatly into the picture before him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but shudder at the beast gazing down at him. The beast being a _bloody **dragon**_ with oh-so-sharp teeth and plumes of smoke ebbing from its nostrils, and _ohhh_ Aziraphale did _not_ like the low rumble it emitted from the back of its throat.

It sure beat the prospect of fire razing the lands from its gaping maw, however.

“Angel, Angel, _wait_!” But then panic _truly_ flared when Crowley approached the beast with frantic cry of, “Woah, steady, steady!” before Aziraphale could grab him by the scruff of the neck and fly them _far, far_ away from here.

But then the other pieces started to fall into place as well as he stood, frozen as Crowley _ran up_ to the creature.

One particularly helpful piece of evidence being how the _bloody **dragon** _lowered its massive snout to receive a few pets and strokes from the prince as he spewed soothing croons and praises with practiced ease. “There, there…calm down.”

There was a thunderclap of realization and Aziraphale felt the oncoming of a very large, very painful headache. “Crowley, you _idiot_ — _!_ ”

“She’s just—excited, that’s all!” he defended.

“ _She_ —”

Crowley gave a nervous laugh, arms ready to gesticulate a grand old introduction. “Angel, this is—”

 _May the Queen herself help him—_ “ _YOU HAVE A PET **DRAGON**?!”_

The little _bastard_ had the gall to grin at him. “Cute, innit? Her name’s Bentley!” In true, tamed fashion, the _bloody **dragon**_ nosed the side of Crowley’s fire-red hair with a soft, affectionate snort. “Oh, don’t worry, she’s harmle—”

And in true _untrained_ fashion, roared, mightily and proud, right at Aziraphale’s face.

Dragon breath and dragon spittle aside, Aziraphale was tired and teetering between sheer terror and exhaustion and somehow met in the middle with “decidedly unimpressed”; if he were to die by this idiot prince’s frivolity, then so be it. It would make for an interesting epitaph, after all. “My dear, that’s quite rude,” he chided; he deftly ignored the grumble of disbelief from the reptile. His ire was instead trained on the grinning serpent before him anyways. “Crowley, you can’t just bring a _dragon_ to Heaven, we—”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’s why we’re not staying here.” He rounded to the dragon’s back where—oh _dear **Lord** is that a saddle?! _The prince gave an expectant look at him as he patted the leather. “C’mon—up you get!”

_What._

Aziraphale blinked.

Then Aziraphale sputtered. “W-what?!”

“Yeah! Don’t worry, I trained her myself!” Which meant that this _bloody **dragon**_ was little more than a glorified deathtrap. Crowley frowned, sensing Aziraphale’s lingering unease. “I said don’t worry.”

Aziraphale shot him a pointed look. “Your previous statement makes that quite impossible.”

Crowley gave a dramatic sigh, irritation ticking at his brow. “ _Fine_. You can fly _yourself_ to Old-End, then.”

For all Aziraphale’s intellect and vast vocabulary borne of collecting his books, poring over literature, and a lifelong dedication to the written word, one of his favorite playwrights _did_ say that _Brevity is the soul of wit_. So, to sum Aziraphale’s current feelings with a hearty and shrill _“What?!”_ seemed only appropriate. “Why are you going to Old-End?”

 _That_ was a cause for concern—even more than the _bloody **dragon**. _

The island sat at the very edge of their current maps, the furthest point where any Angel—or Demon for that matter—ever dared travel. Well…traveled and returned home to tell the tale, anyways. Beyond its shores, the seemingly infinite rest of the word was left unexplored behind a veil of endless seas and dense fogs. And, if legends were to be believed, if one was to venture far enough, they’d reach The Other Side, where sky meets the sea, the two becoming intertwined and inseparable.

To tack onto that, there were also innumerous tales of terrible monsters lurking in the depths of the skies and seas as well.

But Crowley didn’t seem deterred at all. “ _We,”_ he corrected and Aziraphale startled. Crowley sighed. “It was _your_ suggestion!”

Aziraphale balked at the insinuation— _since when did he opt into this?!_

 _God_ _help him,_ the Demon was pouting. “Didn’t you say you wanted a vacation?”

“I never said that!” he blurted. Sure…it might have been _implied_ last night—and _oh **bugger** —_ was this what it was all about? “Besides, it’s been abandoned for decades!" he countered. It was hardly a luxury resort fit for a prince and Aziraphale had _every_ reason to be concerned _._ Old-End had small post before, but it’s been abandoned since the wars between Heaven and Hell began. After all, it was hardly wise to expend resources for exploration while the rest of the kingdom went up in flames.

“Not in those exact words,” Crowley admitted and, right, Aziraphale should _really_ watch what he says in front of the prince from now on. “And that’s exactly why! C’mon, it’ll be great! No need to pack, I have everything we need.” Lest he pull another stunt like this one. “Just get on and we’ll—"

And Bentley let out an ear-splitting shriek.

It wasn’t the _worst_ of Aziraphale’s fears being actualized. No, what occurred next was merely the penultimate of those horrors: of the massive, _bloody **dragon**_ shaking the prince off her before propelling herself into the air, swooping down, and _snatching_ the Angel before he could decide between ducking for cover or taking Crowley by the hand to safety.

In all honesty, he probably should have let Crowley fend for himself this time.

~~But then that would have been the _worst_ of Aziraphale’s horrors coming to light. ~~

Just like that—in a blink of an eye, a bat of a lash, a beat of a wing, and a howl into the winds, the dragon made off into the clouds, a shrieking Angel between her claws. 

For Crowley, it took him a moment to fully realize that one second ago, he was bickering with the love of his life (who was currently berating him on his choice of exotic pets and his choice of exotic vacation spots), and then the very next, said love of his life was being stolen away from him with a panicked cry of, _“ **CROWLEEEEEEY!** ”_ echoing through the skies.

And it took perhaps a few more seconds for the sheer terror to set in at the very uncomfortable realization that there was really no way for him to ensure Aziraphale’s safe return from the hands of his rather spoilt and rather unruly dragon.

“ _BENTLEY_ ,” he screamed off into the distance, the flapping figure growing smaller and smaller as they sped off into the horizon. _“GET BACK HERE YOU USELESS REPTILE!_ ”2

* * *

_My Bonnie lies over the ocean_

_My Bonnie lies over the sea_

_My Bonnie lies over the ocean_

_Oh bring back my Bonnie to me_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Atul Gawande’s Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imperfect Science: “This was not guilt: guilt is what you feel when you have done something wrong. What I felt was shame: I was what was wrong.”
> 
> 2 This chapter was heavily inspired by How to Train Your Dragon, can you tell? Also, a smidge of Kingdom Hearts.
> 
> Also, that monstrosity of a villanelle was written by yours truly. And a special thank you to @valnine (on tumblr and ao3) for making sure it was sappy enough. And in my defense (even though I’m technically the one roasting it), villanelles have no set meter or syllable count. I’m looking at you Aziraphale—not everything has to be in a structured form!


	5. Step 4: Plan an Exit Strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a vacation is had and skinny-dipping is involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: I can still write and upload regularly! 
> 
> Bad news: I can…write and upload regularly…fun fact: I write out the entire chapter over the course of one day, sometimes two. Does it hurt? Oh, you betcha. Hurts like the dickens. But like in the best way.
> 
> Also, this chapter’s a bit more randy than my other ones.

As far as first meetings went, this was certainly not Aziraphale’s ideal.

Still, careening off to the skies whilst in the clutches of a dragon stood a bar just a _little_ below the humiliation Aziraphale faced having been bamboozled by one particular demon prince.

“Say, you—err, wouldn’t happen to be thinking of turning around, would you? Your owner must be terribly concerned— _AAAAAH!_ ”

 _Unruly thing_. Bentley seemed to give a conceited warble after a rather steep dive that made Aziraphale’s insides twist with dread. Calming himself after the _bloody **dragon**_ took off soaring at a more appropriate elevation, Aziraphale steadied his heart, attempting to tame the panic. If the blasted thing wouldn’t listen to reason, then perhaps it was time to make a break for it.

He may not have the agility to outfly a dragon—but he might have a trick or two up his sleeves.

He squirmed in her claws, striking up conversation once again. “You know, it _really_ wouldn’t do to fly so far off—it’ll be night soon you know so— _Ah!”_ Another rough switch in vector, this time steering straight towards the clouds, affording him a little more freedom to thrash in her hold and masking his intentions with fear.

It was ever his fortune that Bentley wasn’t crushing him with her massive talons and if he wriggled just a _little_ bit more—

 _There_. A bit more room. The dragon let out a shriek— a threat, a _warning—_ as she felt her grip loosening and not for the first time in Aziraphale’s life, he decided to take that warning to _Sit, stay, don’t do anything rash_ and completely fuck it.

He gave one last heave, the unexpected burst of strength allowing him to slip free and drop straight into the waves.

There was a roar behind him and Aziraphale unfurled his wings as they tore open from his back, gliding through the gales and gyres.

He didn’t get very far before a mass of scales appeared in his periphery.

_Right._

There’s actually _no_ way for him to out-speed the beast, as demonstrated by how easily she was about to overtake him. He feigned a dodge to the left, noting with both intrigue and terror at how the dragon _lunged_ mid-air in attempts of trapping him. Luckily, Aziraphale dropped and hurled a few meters beneath her just in time, catching the winds to keep him aloft and to keep up his speed.1

It afforded him a few, precious seconds, but dragons were _notoriously_ intelligent.

He wouldn’t be able to pull off that trick twice.

After gaining some distance between them, Aziraphale rocketed upwards, expending more and more energy as the snarls from below came closer and closer. Breaking through the lowest layers of skies, Aziraphale sustained flight and laid in wait for a massive snout to crest through the clouds. Once he caught sight of the black maw, gnashing in frustration a few seconds later, he did the only thing natural for a bird like him.

He dove.

He spiraled downwards as he closed his wings, the rush of the night air escaping him and leaving him breathless. There was another bellow of the beast breaking through the atmosphere and fear seized at the Angel.

Fall too slow, he’ll be caught again and then who _knows_ what will become of him. The _bloody **dragon**_ may be fond of Crowley, but that did little to ease Aziraphale’s concerns. A shock of guilt trembled its way down his spine at the thought of leaving Crowley alone to face his burdens—alone with the _guilt_ should the unthinkable happen to Aziraphale at the hands—err, claws—of his own dragon—

Oh, not to mention the ensuing war should Crowley fail to marry an Archangel without his guidance.

Fall too fast and— well.

He’d shatter all his bones. That was hardly ideal either.

But Aziraphale knew how to control his dive, knew at which exact moment to allow the winds to break his fall. Once more, as loathe as Aziraphale was to even mentally admit it, Gabriel was a _very_ good teacher.

Moments before crushing impact against the black waves below, Aziraphale unfurled his wings, its large span catching onto what little windspeed remained. The Angel drifted onto a windward climb at a more comfortable speed and braced himself, as a few seconds later, a roar followed by a crash onto the waves resonated throughout the night.

Aziraphale never thought he’d be so grateful for a dragon’s one-track mind in chasing down their prey. He never thought he’d be grateful for their large size, leaving them quite ineffective at keeping their momentum in check, either.2

But he didn’t celebrate for long; he still had a prince and a stern talking-to awaiting his return.

* * *

Thankfully, the _bloody **dragon**_ hadn’t taken them far, using loops and dives to keep Aziraphale busy with pure panic rather than covering a grand distance.

Still, that was _far_ more exercise than Aziraphale had signed up for and the Angel noted with displeasure at the deconditioning his body had undertaken. He was _out of breath_ for goodness sake! And he could barely muster up the energy to start berating the bloody idiot that got him into that situation in the first place!

And it had absolutely nothing to do with the relief flooding Crowley’s eyes at his return. “Oh, good you’re back!” Not that Aziraphale _almost_ entertained the notion of forgiving him at the concern lacing the prince’s voice. “You all right there?”

“ _Tickety-boo,_ ” he wheezed out, ever-grateful for the sea’s winds keeping him afloat on the flight back.1 What he _wasn’t_ grateful for was the shadow towering over him and the snout that nosed at him from over his shoulder.

 _“Ah!”_ A startled yelp seemed to be the only appropriate reaction—

—as was flying straight into Crowley’s arms. “Hey, look at that,” the prince noted, thoroughly ignoring the way Aziraphale scrabbled to get them away. “She likes you!”

_The little—_

He had the _audacity_ to sound delighted! “Crowley, _please_.” Aziraphale gave another squeak and tightened his hold on the prince’s shoulders as the dragon pressed a curious nose into his curls. Reflexively, he folded his wings, covering them both. He didn’t think he had enough physical or mental energy left to expend in another escape attempt.

Crowley gave a chuckle and a soothing hand over his back that did little to settle Aziraphale’s frazzled nerves. “All right, all right. Hey, Bentley.” She seemed to consider his words for a few moments before turning attention to the Demon. “Give the Angel some space, would ya?”

Aziraphale wanted to scoff. _Nicely put, Crowley._

There was another snort and a nuzzle to Aziraphale’s back that left Aziraphale squirming into Crowley further before she trotted over some feet away, those golden eyes watching on with mild interest as Aziraphale hesitantly looked over.

“Oh. So now she listens,” Aziraphale muttered, extracting himself from Crowley’s hold. When did the prince put his arms around him anyways—

But Crowley only shrugged, looking pointedly at the ground. “She’s usually quite good at it, but she must have just wanted to…get to know you personally?”

 _Right_. Because snatching him from the ground and taking him across the waves was a completely proper way of self-introduction.

“Quite possible,” Aziraphale returned. He obviously learned quite a few things about Bentley. Mostly in that she adored Crowley and perhaps that played a major reason as to why he was taken. Perhaps she viewed him as a threat. Perhaps she wanted Aziraphale to prove something to him.

Aziraphale could only hope he passed whatever test this impetuous reptile had rigged up.

At least the prince seemed to be in high spirits again as he greeted the dragon with soft adoration. “Must’ve given the little Bird a scare, didn’t you girl? Yeah?” Bentley gave a soft rumble and Aziraphale had to remind himself that this was the nasty little beast that up and plucked him from the ground, not an adoring house-pet. “Scared the feathers off of him?” Crowley cooed.

Bentley gave a warble of contentment, rumbling happily at the attention and Aziraphale would have found it completely adorable—

Had it not been at his expense.

Crowley gave a snicker, calling out, “Say Angel, did the life flash before your eyes again?” That reminded Aziraphale again, this was the rotten little trickster that humiliated him once before.

That was when Aziraphale decided that his patience was taking its own vacation. “No, not at all,” he replied primly, dusting himself off and—good _lord_ , he was exhausted—ambling off back towards the direction of the capital after a wave goodbye. “Well, now that’s done, do enjoy _your_ vacation—”

He could hear the frown in Crowley’s voice. “Angel—”

“—and be sure to return within three days’ time or I’ll have the Powers fetch you from Old-End.”

“ _Angel_ —” As well as that insufferable whine.

But Aziraphale _will **not**_ be swayed. He turned giving a blithe, terse smile. “Have fun, _try_ to be safe, and avoid slipping on any rocks and cracking your hollow head open, dear.”

As for Crowley, he winced at the cold, placid expression his Angel wore. “C’mon, I’m _sorry_!” All right, he might have taken the teasing a bit too far. The dragon seemed to read the situation straight away as she gave an unhappy cry. Crowley smoothed her scales, murmuring a calming, “Stay, girl,” before turning and chasing down his flighty Bird. “Angel!"

Thankfully it seemed Aziraphale was still too exhausted to simply fly off. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale would appreciate being chased down by a dragon twice in the same day. That, or his Bird _really_ wasn’t thinking of leaving Crowley all by his lonesome on some island in the middle of nowhere. Not when Crowley had _painstakingly_ planned this entire trip for them both. Sure it went a bit…pear-shaped at the end with him meeting Bentley, but surely he’d forgive that, right?

At least, Crowley hoped so.

“ _Crowley_.” Said Demon stopped immediately in his tracks at the sound of _that_ icy tone. He immediately scrambled to attention when Aziraphale turned, face impassive and eyes giving off a chilling glow.

But alas, the poor Bird was far too exhausted to keep even his irritation aloft. “What do you expect _me_ to do at Old-End?”

 _What indeed_. Obviously, Crowley’s best-case-scenario was out of the question since his bloody mate couldn’t read a poetic profession of adoration and worship if his life depended on it. “I don’t know, just…” _Take some time off. Enjoy your time off. Enjoy your time off with me_. “Make sure I don’t slip on a rock and crack my hollow head open?” he offered weakly.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was hardly moved.

“C’mon, Angel, I’m begging here. Plus, isn’t it your job to make sure that I stay out of trouble?” he needled and _ah_. There it is. Crowley felt some inkling of guilt as seeds of doubt were planted. Later on, he knew he’d feel much worse about his next words choice of words, but right now? He had a vacation to save. “That you’d protect me?”

There was a spark of fury that erupted in those lovely eyes, not that Crowley could blame him.

But he knew he’d always be able to win Aziraphale over in the end.

Crowley tried to hide the self-satisfied smirk on his face as the Angel’s resolved cracked with an exasperated, frustrated, and exhausted, “Oh, you wily— _serpent_ —” Poor Bird could barely muster a scowl as Crowley politely, _sweetly_ , offered his arm with all the smugness of the cat that got the cream. He took it anyways. “Fine. But if I smell even a _whiff_ of peril, then we’re flying _straight_ home, do you hear me?”

“Agreed,” Crowley promised; he wouldn’t be putting his Angel in a situation like that again—even though he was certain Bentley wouldn’t allow any harm to come to someone Crowley considered his.

 _Fairly_ certain.

Also, “What does peril even smell like?”

Aziraphale gave a sniff and looked deliberately at Crowley. “Usually of fire and brimstone.”

Crowley didn’t bother holding back his laughter this time.

* * *

As they approached Bentley, Crowley felt Aziraphale instinctively stiffen against him. He frowned. It seemed his Bird was still very much wary. Bentley merely gave a snort and lowered herself to the ground as the pair rounded towards her back.

Gingerly releasing his grip on the Angel, Crowley hoisted himself over on the saddle. He looked over, noting the hesitancy in Aziraphale’s eyes. Once more, he extended his hand, figuratively and literally.

“Don’t worry,” he assured, dropping the bravado. “She knows better than to pull off the same stunt twice.” _Please._ Crowley held a breath as a conflict of emotions flickered across the Angel’s face. _Just trust me_. Ever-so-reluctantly, Aziraphale took his hand and Crowley’s heart thundered in his chest. “Up you get, Angel. And,” _Oh thank Go—Sata— **Someone**_ the Angel chose to ride behind him instead. “Hang on tight, all right?”

If he had ridden in front, Crowley didn’t know how long he’d be able to survive having that sweet, soft form to hang on to before it ruined him ~~and his trousers~~.

“Bentley,” he warned as the dragon suddenly rose on all fours, causing Aziraphale to simultaneously gasp and clutch at Crowley’s middle. _Satan preserve us_. “Go easy on him all right? It’s his first time on a dragon and I—"

The dragon paid no heed and immediately took off, straight into the clouds and by the blinking of the stars, soaring, diving, wheeling, and careening to an aerial dance to the moonbeams above.

And Crowley loved it—there was nothing quite like the speed, power, and _freedom_ he had when on the wing. Just him, Bentley, the rush of the winds and the blur of the skies and seas—

And now, he had his Angel with them as well.

Aziraphale let out a scream—a fantastic mix of abject terror and pure exhilaration— and a very besotted, very sadistic part of Crowley swore it was one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard. He committed the sound, this moment, to memory.

Something bubbled in him, bright and warm, loosening a laugh from his throat as Bentley flew, faster, and faster still as Aziraphale held him tight, warm and solid behind him.

It felt like happiness.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to recover from the shock; it also helped that Bentley eased up on the airborne acrobatics. Crowley leaned back and placed a hand on the arm clutching at his left hip. “There’s nothing like it, eh, Angel?”

Goodness, his poor Bird was still shaking. “It’s—quite different from flying on your own, I assure you that.”

Crowley gave a hapless shrug. “Wouldn’t know. Demon and all.”

“Oh.” The Demon scoffed. Of course Aziraphale would forget. “Right…”

Flight was only a small part of what they lost when they broke away from Her kingdom. Removed from Her light, their bodies changed, transformed until they were Angels no longer. Many embraced it—what else could they do? But many, Crowley knew, mourned as they looked to the skies and all it held with a marrow-deep longing. _Cursed are you above all_ She had proclaimed as the gates of Heaven slammed behind the first of the Fallen. _You will crawl on your bellies, groveling in the dust as long as you shall live._

And now…now She wants to make amends? End the wars, forge peace, but to what end?

 _Just what is She planning,_ Crowley wondered.

He was pulled from that rather unsavory road of thought by his Angel’s sweet voice. “You know, dear…” Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle at the other’s wavering; he thought Aziraphale would know by now that Crowley would never rebuke him for anything he had to say. “I was a bit concerned that your inability to fly would put a damper on the courtship flight—”

Except for this one time. Wait—

_COURTSHIP FLIGHT?_

“—but with Bentley here, I’m sure she could impress any of the Archangels!” Aziraphale chirped merrily.

 _I **knew** there was a bloody mating dance involved in this—augh it certainly explains why these blasted wings keep popping out every time we’re in his nest… _Crowley sighed. “Angel, we’re here to _relax_ , not talk about work!”

“Right, sorry!” Aziraphale amended.

Crowley let out a breath, stamping down his mounting frustration. Would that have worked then? If he were able to fly, would his feelings reach Aziraphale that way? If they weren’t so bloody _different,_ would Aziraphale understand what Crowley felt for him?

“It’s just a—very important aspect of courting—”

Crowley groaned. _“Angel!”_

At least his Bird was quick to relent. “Okay, we’ll resume our talk later!” But really, there was no need because Crowley already took it to heart.

If it took a bloody _courtship flight_ to get his Angel to see, then a courtship flight he’ll have. 

* * *

If Aziraphale was honest with himself, the smart thing to have done was keep track of exactly where they were headed. They had been traveling east for a few hours now and while the moon still hung silently over them, it was difficult to gauge how much distance they covered.

If Aziraphale was honest with himself, the smart thing to have done was to stop at home to pick up a _map_ rather than depend on Crowley’s self-proclaimed _fantastic sense of direction 3 _and Bentley’s affirming huff.

It Aziraphale was honest with himself, the smart thing to have done was to have was to stay home and turn in his halo, because deep down in his gut, he knew this Demon was going to end up killing him.

Inadvertently or otherwise.

But just when all hope was lost and Aziraphale started to seriously consider slipping off the saddle and gliding his way back home—wherever direction that may be—Crowley made an animated gesture that dragged Aziraphale out of his doubtful and skeptical lull by nearly smacking him in the face.

“There we are, Angel—” he announced giving a grand sweep to the mote of land over by the stretch of the horizon. “Old-End.”

Aziraphale could only hum, the awe not quite catching up to him yet; it was probably left behind some kilometers away, along with his remaining sanity.

Bentley landed on its shores, a gust sending sand flying every which-way. Crowley jumped off and landed with the grace of a slug. Understandable after hours of flying. The very fact that Aziraphale didn’t comment on it other than making a noise of concern reaffirmed to the Demon that this Angel was indeed meant for him.

True to the legends, beyond them laid an impenetrable fog where even moonlight wouldn’t dare touch. It was a barren isle in that no Angel-made structures dotted the land, no light shone to pollute the skies, but rich in its overgrowth of vegetation that even swallowed the old post created by Angels decades before. The latter had been a concern for the Angel as he assumed they’d make camp there, but instead Crowley took him by the hand into the brush and trees.

Bentley followed diligently, clearing a path behind them. While Aziraphale would never say it, it gave him some modicum of comfort now that the dragon wasn’t actively trying to kidnap him like a damsel. She did, however, startle him as she suddenly ran headlong into the grass of a clearing, disrupting a host of birds and other small creatures and sending them scurrying off.

Crowley gave a laugh as Aziraphale ducked from a rather irate waterfowl, squawking off after the dragon’s disturbance. “Well, looks like she found the perfect place to make camp.”

* * *

“Crowley, you didn’t happen to…pack any bedding, did you?”

Crowley turned over from where he laid against the curve of Bentley’s underbelly and just from _that_ look alone, the one that said _You’re looking at it,_ Aziraphale knew he was in for a _very_ long weekend.3

Or however long they’d survive until then.

While Aziraphale should have known better than to trust Crowley to pack the essentials, he again…trusted Crowley. Now he was basically marooned on this God-forsaken spit of land without so much as a blanket for bedding, and without any utensils to cook with.

At first, Aziraphale had been _furious_ —but it was late. It would require expending _more_ energy to maintain that anger, and it was far _past_ _dinnertime_. Not that he’d start arguing now; the Angel knew better than outwardly berating the Demon while his pet _dragon_ slumbered nearby.

So instead, Aziraphale followed in Crowley’s lead and tentatively sat against the warm beast (quietly letting out a breath of relief as she did nothing but turn towards him in curiosity and laying her head back down again). That seemed to brighten Crowley’s mood immensely and the Demon shuffled closer.

Shoulders almost touching, Aziraphale allowed himself to bask in the peace and stillness of forest, with starlight raining down on them from above.

Speaking of which: “What if it rains?”

Crowley cracked one eye open. “It’s not going to rain,” he insisted. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You can’t know that for sure.”

“Cloud-readers said the weather would be good all weekend.”

“The _meteorologists_ only read the forecast for the capital’s weather.”

The Demon gave a lazy stretch, careless and carefree. “Okay sure. But for the record, you jinxed it.” Then, as if in realization of something, Crowley frowned. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Good _lord_ , Gabriel was right. He really had adapted a little too well to civilian life…Not that it had been anyone’s fault. But, in Aziraphale’s grouchy mind, he’d have to point a finger at the Demon Prince who’d been fattening him up like a Light’s Festival goose. “Starving, actually,” Aziraphale admitted with pinked cheeks. “How can you tell?”

“We’re usually finishing up our dinner at this time,” Crowley reminded him as he stood, causing Bentley to grunt in dissatisfaction. “And you _always_ want to start an argument when you’re peckish.”

Aziraphale tried (and failed) not to look too affronted. “I do _not—”_

“You’re only proving my point, Angel,” Crowley sang as he clambered onto Bentley’s saddle. “Say, what’s your favorite animal?”

Aziraphale had opened his mouth to disagree once more but paused at the rather odd turn of conversation. _What indeed…_ “Oh, I have so many…rabbits are particularly nice, I suppose?”

He always did love them, soft and shy as they were with their cute, twitchy little noses…he loved his dear _Harry_ the moment he adopted the dear little thing and never quite got over her rather unfortunate fate.

Since then, rabbits always reminded him of a robbed innocence. But they were still his favorite.

“All right,” Crowley nodded and with that, whistled to Bentley. The dragon (grumpily) stood, causing the Angel to lose his support and fall over onto his back.

There was a disgruntled roar and Bentley took off once again, leaving Aziraphale gazing up at the stars where a mass of scales had once obscured his vision. The Angel wondered briefly what on earth just took place but found little reason to leave the wide indent of the grass where Bentley sat, nice and warm.

.

When he came to, it was to Crowley’s golden eyes gazing at him with a sort of…strange expression that his sleep-addled brain couldn’t quite name. “Crowley?” he murmured, voice still laced with sleep. The prince helped him sit up and it was only then that Aziraphale noted that some feet away, there laid a fire atop some freshly dug earth, clearing away the surrounding grass.

A flask was thrust into his hands as Crowley smiled. “Rise and shine, Angel.” Aziraphale took a gulp, relishing at the cool, refreshing taste of clean water. They must have found a stream nearby as well, keeping themselves quite busy.

All while Aziraphale was sleeping.

 _How embarrassing._

There was a gentle warbling beside him, and the Angel startled at the large snout pressed against his side. “Oh! Erm, hello dear.” A different set of golden eyes looked to him and, with all sorts of reluctance yet at Crowley’s encouragement, Aziraphale ran a soft, plump hand against the smooth, midnight scales. There was a pleasant rumble from deep within her throat and Aziraphale felt his breath hitch.

Not from fear, however.

Aziraphale didn’t know how on Heaven’s gates he’d managed to get on the dragon’s good side, but he’ll take it.

Crowley was looking at them with that same look again. “Well, would you look at that. She’s taken quite a shine to you.” The very one that, even with his mind slipping more and more into consciousness, Aziraphale still couldn’t decipher.

“Oh, also—here!” Crowley hummed cheerily as he reached over behind him and dropped a bloodied, furry thing at Aziraphale’s feet. Upon further inspection of the mass, Aziraphale felt the very blood drain from his face.

A…rabbit _._

Aziraphale was definitely awake now.

_A **RABBIT**!? WHAT IN THE—_

“Caught that one especially for you. Little bugger was a runner,” Crowley rattled on excitedly and _Oh no,_ oh _goodness gracious_ this was **_not_** what Aziraphale _meant_ by his _favorite animal—_

But at the earnest look of pride on the Demon’s face and the honestly _good intentions_ behind it, and the thought that _Well, it’s actually a very **sweet** gesture of him to try and…hunt me my favorite animal—_Aziraphale could do little more than give a small smile as his face seized between a mix of horrified concern and helpless gratitude.

It seemed to appease Crowley immensely at least. “And look! Peace offering!” Crowley gesticulated excitedly as Bentley lumbered over, dropping a heap of wet fur, and bloodied lumps, and dragon-drool—all onto the Angel’s awaiting lap. 

“I think she _really_ likes you,” Crowley duly informed as Aziraphale’s throat tightened up before he could let out a shriek.

Aziraphale nodded stiffly, a wooden smile upon his face as he regarded the dragon with awe and quite a bit of trepidation. “R-right.” Turning to his left, “Thank you, Crowley…” At that, the Demon gave a bright grin. And tuning over to his right, “Thank _you_ , Bentley.”

She gave a cry of delight that almost made up for the blood stains on his robes.

~~Almost.~~

For the first time in Aziraphale’s life, after giving a short prayer begging forgiveness from his dearly departed Harry, tasted the savory, tender flesh of fire-roasted rabbit.

And to his utter horror, found it delicious.

* * *

Daylight found Crowley waking to the lovely sight of his Angel and the Demon vowed then and there that one day, it would be a sight he’d get to see every day: sleep-tousled white-blond curls, sea-storm eyes, and alabaster-smooth skin bathing in the soft morning glow.

And currently in mourning at the red stains on his robes.

“Dragon-drool,” Crowley muttered, startling Aziraphale out of his grimacing. “A nightmare to wash off.”

Crowley regretted the words as soon as it left his mouth from the look of despair on his Angel’s face. The Demon groaned, rolling over to the side, hoping to shield himself from the effect of those _blasted_ pleading eyes and that damned kissable pout. But it was pointless.

He was besotted.

And Aziraphale, _bless him_ , had Crowley wrapped around his well-manicured pinky.

Heaving a heavy sigh, he extracted himself from Bentley’s cozy warmth and stood, wobbling onto his feet. “Come on, let the reptile rest.” He bit back a scowl at the sight of that same, pleased smile Aziraphale wore whenever Crowley begrudgingly indulged him.

Spoiled little thing.

_As he should be._

“There’s a stream with a small waterfall further inland. We’ll get washed up there,” Crowley said, offering his hand again.

The Angel took it with enthusiasm. 

It was a mostly quiet trek into the island, with the pair abiding by the early hours’ silence until the sound of rushing water broke through the trees. The pair followed the gentle hum and Aziraphale found himself internally apologizing for ever doubting Crowley’s self-proclaimed _fantastic sense of direction._

A cascading waterfall stood at the mouth of the lake, crystalline waters rippling into the deep body of water from the stream further up the cliffside. Its rocky shores surrounded by paradise-greens from the forest framed the painting-perfect lake and Aziraphale had to pause to allow his breath to catch at the sight of such a picturesque and undisturbed beauty of nature.

Only for him to choke on said breath as Crowley began to wriggle out of his clothes right in front of him, exposing inch after inch of toned sun-kissed skin and lithe muscle.

 _A beauty of nature, indeed,_ came an unbidden thought as Crowley thoughtlessly dropped his undergarments and strutted recklessly in the nude. Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat up before he could sputter out in affront. _“C-CROWLEY!”_

Said Demon didn’t bother hiding a smirk as he turned to the delicious sight of those fiery cheeks. Crowley knew how to look good, how to dress well, and despite being on the _trim_ side, was graced with handsome features and the swagger to back it up. While Crowley obviously didn’t make it a habit of intentionally displaying himself, he understood the importance of _giving them a little taste_ now and then. _Sampling the goods_ so to speak.

Besides, as scandalized as Aziraphale may sound, it at least let Crowley know that the Angel was intentionally _looking_.

And right now, Crowley would very much like it if he could have a look at the Angel too. “Come on, Angel! That stain’s not going to get itself out!” he called as he dipped his toe in the water before diving in.

Aziraphale took a breath and uttered a short prayer for divine strength—and possibly intervention—before heading to the shore. He picked up the bottom of his robe, utterly ruined after hours of drying by firelight and the cool night breeze. There really was no point to washing it, now was there? There wasn’t any reason to go in…

More unbidden thoughts surfaced, particularly the unpleasant echo of Gabriel’s words.

 _Soft_ , he had called him. Unbecoming of a warrior. It was honestly such a silly thing to ruminate on, but he couldn’t help but feel that familiar burn of shame, hot and unrelenting at the back of his neck. Especially next to _Crowley—_

That train of thought was promptly derailed as Crowley gave an obnoxious wolf-whistle. “You know I could stare at those bare calves for ages, Angel.” Aziraphale whipped his head to where Crowley swam, eyes sparking with mirth. “But there’s no need to draw this out, you utter tease.”

The Angel felt his eyebrow tick with irritation.

_That little—_

Without further preamble, Aziraphale disrobed hastily—to Crowley’s absolute delight—and chucked the ruined clothes straight at his face.

“Souvenir?” the Demon asked with a smirk, easily catching it.

What he _didn’t_ catch, however, was the Angel diving straight at him with all the grace and tact of a military-grade projectile and smacking him right in the face with a wet wing.

As much as Crowley utterly _loved_ that reaction, he couldn’t help but give a startled yelp, immediately causing Aziraphale to retract and fret at his impulsive actions. “Oh my—oh I’m so sorry—”

Wiping the water from his eyes, Crowley would have cackled at the modest reaction had he not been rendered completely helpless at the sight of all that _delectable_ soft, _bare_ skin laid out before him like a feast.

And _oh_ , how Crowley longed to take a bite, sink his teeth into him, and mark him up for all the damned kingdoms to see.

He cleared his throat, suddenly dry and thirsting. “Think nothing of it.” What was that saying again? _Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest?_ “I think I’d prefer you as a bastard as long as you’re enjoying yourself.” He tossed the robes over to Aziraphale, who gave him a grateful look in return and Crowley silently wondered just how far that darling blush could go. “And of course, if it’s not always aimed at me,” he added with a wince as Aziraphale unfurled those lovely, messy wings, the Angel taking to the water with candid ease. 

“You shouldn’t be so crude,” Aziraphale defended, continuing to fruitlessly scrub at the stains before sighing. Just as he had feared, the stain had long since set. He tossed the ruined garb over to the rocks dotting the shore and dove into the water with effortless grace. At the very least, he could enjoy his bath.

And at the very least, all Crowley could do was stop and stare.

His Angel had never looked lovelier with that blissful grin on those pretty lips (it made Crowley wonder how they would look, screaming in rapture), sun beaming down on him and his blessedly plump form (it made Crowley wonder how his Angel would look, bathed in the glow of firelight, that soft body against his silken sheets), the _sight_ of him glistening with water, rivulets cascading down from his slopes and curves (it gave Crowley a _very_ good idea of how his Angel would look, dripping with sweat, panting with exertion, and crying out for _more, more, more—_ )

And it had the _worst_ (best) effect on Crowley.

Here his mate was, _displaying_ himself, bright-eyed in unrepentant _joy_ and Crowley couldn’t help the satisfaction it gave him knowing he had a hand in putting it there— the spark of desire that rushed through his blood at the knowledge that he could fulfill his mate in every sense of the word and that his darling Bird may or may not be unintentionally goading him to give him more of what he deserved.

The very threads of his self-control were snapping one by one, especially at the realization that _they were alone_.

No Birds.

No Archangels.

No Hastur and Ligur.

Nothing stopping him from letting Aziraphale know _exactly_ what that poem had meant.

_Could he do it right here? Right now?_

Could he bare his heart and soul, offer it up on a silver platter to his sweet, guileless, tormentor? How would Aziraphale take it? Would he take it with an appalled gasp, loyalty to his kingdom, to his people, to his _Queen_ superseding his own heart? Would he take it with confused hesitancy, still unknowing of his own heart but willing for Crowley to take his hand and show them that they were meant to be? Would he take it with bated breath and coquettish bliss, asking, _begging_ Crowley to draw him to a princely, perfect kiss?

_Would he take it on his hands and knees, offering his body for Crowley to take, own, ruin, and worship?_

There was another throb of heat and Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would even question it if Crowley waded over by the plunge pool to cool his head.

Both heads, as it were.

A roar reverberated through the air and Crowley simultaneously thanked and cursed Bentley for her (un)timely arrival.

Especially since Crowley was on the verge of combustion as Aziraphale waded his way to shore where he laid his clothes out to dry under the sun, his _scrumptious_ backside in all its glory exposed to the wilderness and immortalized in Crowley’s greedy gaze.

 _That_ was enough wanking material to last Crowley throughout this entire, frigid, courting process…

As if sensing eyes trailing ravenously over his body, Aziraphale turned as the prince ducked into the water, the latter uselessly commanding his arousal to ease. “Crowley, get out of the water!” his Angel called. “You’ll wrinkle like a prune in there!”

“No thanks, Angel,” he croaked out as he resurfaced. “I’m fine where I am.”

Aziraphale sighed as he fixed his robes. “You can’t just spend the rest of the day there!”

 _Bloody Bird—_ “We’re on _vacation,_ Angel! We can do whatever we want!”

 _That, and_ _I'd rather not go through the mortifying ordeal of letting my feelings be known in such a humiliating and visual manner._

Aziraphale gave roll of his eyes and looked over to the dragon, sunning herself over by a slab of rock. The dragon lifted an eyelid to look over at the pair and Aziraphale shot her that _same, damned_ pleading look Crowley was more than familiar with.

Bentley gave a languid stretch before lifting herself up sluggishly and made her way to the lake towards where Crowley swam. The Demon watched with distracted curiosity at what Aziraphale could have asked of her with those pretty blue eyes. That curiosity quickly morphed into abject horror as the blasted beast blew _fire_ straight into the water.

With a yelp, Crowley leaped out of the lake and clambered onto a proffered dragon wing. He felt suddenly stabbed with vicious betrayal. _“WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON!?”_ he hissed.

He was only met with a warble of amusement from his dragon and peals of laughter from his Angel.

“I do believe you’re right, my dear.” Aziraphale— _damn_ him—gave an adorable giggle that made the irritation dissipate almost immediately. “She’s definitely warming up to me.”

“ _Traitors_ ,” Crowley grumbled, as Bentley dropped him off to shore, his lips twitching to a smile despite himself. “The lot of you.”

* * *

Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember what lead up to it, but as Crowley expertly preened his feathers, slim, nimble fingers combing through the coverts of his wing, the Angel found himself caring less and less.

Even if the Angel had an inkling it involved a few crude words from Crowley’s behalf on the state of his wings.

He gave a sigh of pleasure as the prince dug into scapulars, tension oozing out from his aching wings after the distressing flight yesterday. In turn, he smoothed over the dark feathers, finding little to do with how immaculate Crowley always kept his wings.

He did his best to tidy them anyways. It was only fair, after all, especially with how much Crowley seemed to enjoy the attention he gave to the little spots he couldn’t reach himself.

 _“Ohhh_ ,” the Angel moaned as those fingers massaged the joint _just_ right, choosing to ignore the breathy chuckle Crowley let out in turn. _Utter tease, indeed._

The sun had long set after a pleasant meal and the stars began dotting the sky to light a path for the moon. Bentley slumbered nearby after drying her scales from the dip in the lake, and the fire crackled at the pit where they had roasted the native island’s fruits they gathered that afternoon.

Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he’d been so at peace.

So much so that he almost didn’t mind the drop of water that landed on the tip of his nose.

But then those drops quickly multiplied, so much so that even Bentley was awoken with a grunt. Crowley let out an annoyed hiss but made little efforts to move from his spot by the Angel’s side.

Even then, all Aziraphale could do was chuckle as Crowley glared at him at the fire’s dying gloom. “I told you it might rain,” the Angel reminded.

“And I told you that it was your fault for jinxing it,” the Demon shot back. 

But instead of retorting, Aziraphale merely lifted the wing Crowley had been working on, shielding him from the light downpour.

What was a poor Demon to do but fall even more in love?

Especially with the delighted and grateful laugh his Angel gave Bentley as she opens a massive wing, providing refuge for them both.

The two settled themselves against her, Aziraphale’s wing still hovering over Crowley instinctively. _Now_ the Demon thought, _Now would be a great time—the **best** time—c’mon you bastard, just—say it, say it now—_

_Say it now, when his eyes are bright with starglow, when he’s smiling at the rain and sky like they’re one in the same, when you know damn well you put that smile on his face as you carded your fingers through his wings when no one else has for bloody ages, when he’s so **close** that he must feel the way this wretched heart beats and breaks for him—_

_Say it now, now that the time is right—before the moment slips through your fingers._

“Angel…”, Crowley started, half-whispered, half-begging, “I—”

“How wonderful our Queen must to be to have had a hand in making all those stars,” Aziraphale murmured in awe and in that statement, in that second, the moment slipped away, sand in sieve.

And with it, Crowley’s bravery. He sighed, almost heartsick with himself at his cowardice. “You really believe in all that?” he muttered, turning his attention back to the Angel’s words. “I mean, it just doesn’t make a lot of sense, right? The Queen herself is barely in court and we’re all to believe that she’s off doing bigger things in places unexplored beyond our realms when there’s still turmoil here.” He gestured vaguely, at the air, to the horizon, to himself. “Not only that, but what about the Other Side? Since the war started, it’s yet to be fully explored.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What is it that you’re saying, Crowley?”

The Demon gave a thick swallow. “I just want facts…that’s all.” _Why did She decide this—and why now? They say She’s omnipotent, that knows and sees all—_ “Can’t fault someone for asking questions.” _Did She know that I’d fall in love with you? Did She know that you’re the one I want…_

_And that your sense of duty may never let me have that?_

Crowley half-feared that he overstepped a boundary somewhere; he always knew Aziraphale was devoted to his Queen—it was why he took Crowley under his wing (literally and figuratively speaking) in the first place.

But the other half of him knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t fault him.

Not him. Not his Angel. “It’s…understandable.” He gave a hesitant nod. “And it’s hard to put logic and faith together, isn’t it?” Aziraphale gave a rueful smile. “The point of faith is to abide and believe, despite what it may seem. Logic falls to the opposite—the likeliest of chances.” Aziraphale leaned against him, his weight comforting, anchoring. “What matters is, in the end, is truth, and both faith and logic fight for what they ultimately can’t prove yet.” His Angel looked to him, those sea-storm eyes ever-honest. “I can’t imagine how one could possibly fault you for that.”

Crowley felt his heart swell, the wild thing thrashing against the cages of his ribs, and all Crowley could do—for the first time in his life—was _pray to Her_ that he would get to keep this. If She would allow it. If She had known that he’d fall so perilously and deliriously in love with him, that it wouldn’t be for naught. That he’d earn and keep his love, his Angel, his Bird, _his Aziraphale—_

But, as he cast his hopes to the heavens, there was only the resounding rumbling of thunder overhead.

“I understand what you mean about the Other Side as well,” Aziraphale added, almost as an afterthought. “I’ve actually got a small collection—some fragments of maps that I—uh, _borrowed_ from a cartographer!” Crowley couldn’t help but snicker. There was absolutely no chance of _that_ guy ever getting his maps back. But then Aziraphale was humming contentedly, a dreamy, far-off look in his eyes. “I wonder if we’ll ever set our eyes towards other lands again. You know. After this entire debacle of hellfire and holy water subsides.”

And maybe, that was where Crowley’s answers laid.

Not in the vast taciturn promises of an omnipotent Queen, but in the sleepy words of his Angel who—despite previous warnings—always seemed to give his Demon the best ideas. “I don’t know, Angel,” Crowley murmured, laying his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, plans forming, preparations taking shape, a storm brewing overhead. 

It’s here under the rains of a new beginning that Crowley decided on this last-ditch effort: if he can’t get their respective sides to maintain peace without him selling his life and tying his soul to one of Heaven’s Divines, then they can run off. Together.

_It would start with those maps—_

_—And lead them to their Own Side._

“Only time will tell,” Crowley said, the words spoken like an oath of love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cheese factor was kicked up a notch because my friend came over and brought me cheesecake.  
> 1-Aziraphale is built like an Albatross here! They’re known for dynamic soaring which helps them not only pick up speed but also expend very little energy to travel great distances (up to weeks at a time out at sea!) and some species are quite good at diving.
> 
> 2-And dragons, being larger, have more momentum and thus need far more energy to stop, like with what happened with Bentley here.
> 
> 3-Crowley looked at a map from Old-End earlier; he memorized it instead of taking it with him. He’s traveling light because he doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion from Hastur and Ligur.
> 
> Also, I do plan on writing smut. You know. Eventually.


	6. Interlude: A Compromising State

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a bet is made and Aziraphale regrets many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m free-stylin this chapter, aka a lot of stream-of-thought-writing.

It wasn’t that working with Crowley was difficult.

Oh no, not at all—Crowley was an absolute delight! Sure, the Demon Prince was mischievous, prone to fleeing socializing events and gatherings of the elite, loved to pull (mostly harmless) pranks on the castle inhabitants—

(Usually leaving Aziraphale to mitigate most of the damage and ire the prince caused; quelling gossip of the prince’s shenanigans was quickly becoming a full-time job)

—and _sure_ , sometimes (often times) the lackadaisical thing would much rather spend their days strolling through the capital, frequenting Aziraphale’s favorite parks and restaurants rather than poring over the intricacies and interests of Crowley’s intended archangel—

( _If_ the stubborn thing ever decided to _pick_ one)

— but Aziraphale knew his heart was in the right place.

From Aziraphale’s perspective (and personal opinion), the prince courted _beautifully_. Or at least, he had promise. He was ever-attentive to Aziraphale’s needs, his preferences, could gauge whenever the Angel was particularly upset, anxious, or disinterested in something or other, and had the thoughtfulness to intervene, had the empathy to listen, and the patience Aziraphale needed to stay with him to allow the swarming thoughts to go by.

Crowley’s intended would _surely_ be a lucky one.

He himself was surely proud and happy to call himself the prince’s Guide; his friend, even. Surely, they must be friends by now—after all, they did spend a fantastic weekend together, ignoring the stormcloud thoughts of work. Yes, their days at Old-End had been a much-needed time of respite and recollection. When the rains had dried, they spent another quiet day in each other’s company, a long-lost _something_ in Aziraphale rousing from a long, cold slumber underneath the paradise greens and the golden sunlight of summer days, and the gold of the prince’s own lovely eyes.

 _It felt like happiness_.

As they prepared to leave the island, a part of Aziraphale felt that something was amiss. Crowley had been pensive the entire afternoon before they departed at sundown, and Aziraphale had long-since learned that a pensive Crowley never lead to anything particularly pleasant. Still, Aziraphale remained silent on the matter; he made it explicit to Crowley that he was there to serve, whatever his needs may be. If he wanted an ear to listen, a voice of reason, a helping hand, an enthusiastic encouragement, and a dogged spirit who believed in him—Aziraphale would be there.

And how could he not?

In Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley was nothing short of incredible. An honorable and _good_ being who was willing to sacrifice so much— one capable of enacting deep, great, and devoted feats of love, a deeply caring and _sweet_ individual who had shown Aziraphale nothing but warmth and kindness—

When he wasn’t being a complete clown, that is.

(No, Aziraphale thinks that he would rather _not_ forget their first encounter, nor _get over it_ , thank you. He may adore Crowley to the High Heavens but he’s not foolish enough to forget that the wily serpent could cause quite a bit of trouble if left unsupervised.)

Crowley—for all his teeth-grinding, heel-digging, and _I-really-don’t-want-to-be-here-please-Angel-can-we-leave?_ looks he shoots at Aziraphale (that the Angel has long-since learned to ignore) whenever he begged the fretful thing to _please mingle_ with the other Angels— was ultimately doing this for the good of their people, the end of destruction, for the tentative promises of armistice their kingdoms desperately needed after decades of war.

After all, why else would he be here?

A haze of doubt in Aziraphale’s mind had once been concerned about Crowley just up and leaving when he came face-to-face with Bentley. Surely, Crowley was well-equipped to run off to other skies and never be seen again if he truly chose to do so; there was nothing stopping him from abandoning his responsibilities, nothing anchoring him to Heaven’s pearly white gates and (rather unideal) marriage candidates.

Absolutely nothing.

So why else would Crowley endure this ordeal?

Aziraphale considered himself especially—fortunate? blessed? —that Crowley was just as committed to their responsibilities as he was. Perhaps not _enthused_ , but no one could fault Crowley for that. Try as Aziraphale might, there was really no guaranteeing that Crowley would fall in love with any one of the archangels.

It made Aziraphale’s heart splinter in two; there was nothing worse to a Principality than seeing the denial of love—worse yet, the denial at a _chance_ of love. It was incredibly unfair that She had decided this, that the Wheels of Fate twisted and turned and set its sights on the Prince to save their Kingdom—

But these were the cards they were dealt with, the hand they were given in this life. As Aziraphale himself did, Crowley could do nothing more than obey.

Begrudgingly, as it were.

“Angel, I look ridiculous.”

Aziraphale instinctively bit down on his lip, nearly drawing blood as he did so. _Good **Lord** ,_ he did. He really did. But Aziraphale wasn’t about to hold that against him, even if the _sight_ of Crowley’s hair _did_ make him snort out a laugh and cover it with a well-timed cough. He wasn’t _that_ cruel. “Dear, it’s the style of the event—”

“That wanker wouldn’t know _style_ if it flogged her right in the—”

_“Crowley!”_

Crowley was giving him that look again; the one that promised he’d attempt yet another escape if Aziraphale didn’t hold him by the scruff of the neck. The Angel sighed and straightened the prince’s coat and straightened his slackened posture. “My dear, you look perfectly lovely, as you’ve always been.”

“You laughed, though,” he muttered petulantly.

“Because your hair looks like a somersaulting weasel, now off we go!”1

* * *

It wasn’t that working with Crowley was difficult.

At the end of the day, it was really Crowley doing all the heavy lifting. There was nothing Aziraphale could do to remedy that. He could put in a good word about Crowley all he liked but given his, ah, current _predicament,_ the rumors surrounding his title, and the tidbit about the whole _missing sword_ incident, very few Angels held his word in high regard.

 _“Never you mind, Angel. You know you’re better than the lot of them.”_ Crowley had said, making all sorts of nervous fluttering stir in his chest.

In reality, Aziraphale could do little more than accompany the prince, get him and his nerves settled—usually taking a dance or three—before the Demon looked sufficiently at ease, wherein Aziraphale would then shoo him off to go socialize with the higher Divines.

And he would—

Or Aziraphale would berate and pout at him for _days_ if he didn’t.

Incidentally, Aziraphale was quick to weaponize what Crowley was inherently weak to. Sure, Crowley would call him a _bastard_ with that same, fond look he always gave Aziraphale when he was being quite a ways less-than-holy, but desperate times called for desperate measures. All manners of relationships were like that, right?

 _Give_ and _take_.

Threaten and take away—

—receive and reward.

A fine balance indeed.

Crowley would meander off with a princely veneer of indifference and mock courtesy, and Aziraphale would watch on with avid attention, focused for the telltale signs of a conversation headed south before pulling Crowley away again.

It would then take a drink or five and a clumsy, jovial jaunt and jig before the prince was back in high spirits, but by then the night had grown stale and so had the rest of the surrounding company (in Crowley’s words). In the end, they’d head back to Aziraphale’s quarters for more drinks and Aziraphale realizing, many hours later, that they’ve accomplished absolutely _nothing_ that night.

This was their song and dance, it would appear. And they’ve had _many_ throughout their time together.

But Aziraphale was _doggedly_ determined this time! He will absolutely _not_ be seduced by Crowley’s piteously, longing gaze for him to help relieve his boredom. He was throwing Crowley to the wolves to see if the prince sunk or swam!

Or something like that.

A few hours in, however, found Aziraphale sighing as finished yet another dance with Crowley. He glanced at his partner’s face and, yep there it was— the ever-present reminder that Aziraphale was doing just the opposite of his job: the self-satisfied smile on Crowley’s mouth that Aziraphale _vehemently_ wanted to wipe off—

Preferably with his own.

_Wait, what?_

“You’re awfully good at following, Angel,” Crowley commented as he handed him a drink. _A Southern red,_ Aziraphale mused with a delighted wiggle. Perhaps he was being too hard on Crowley. “Danced often like this?” The question of _Before meeting me?_ hung in the air, but as with all things of a confusing nature that involved Crowley, Aziraphale was quick to snuff it out.

Aziraphale straightened himself and took a sip of his drink. “Not particularly, but…I am a Principality. My designation required of me to follow my orders to a T.”

There was an almost _insultingly_ pointed raise of a red eyebrow. “Most of the time, right?”

“I should say all the time!” Aziraphale protested. It’s not like anyone told him: _Oh, before you head off into war, be sure **not** to give away your flaming sword to the enemy! _“I’m an Angel,” he sniffed. “I can’t _not_ do what I’m told.”

“Is that so?” The interested purr in Crowley’s voice sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. _Blasted thing and his— **philandering** — _“Is that something you can prove to me?”

 _That_ gave Aziraphale pause. He wasn’t sure what kind of game Crowley was playing… “Of course—” Aziraphale turned to him, a sweet smile on his lips. “But for you, a price.”

However, if it got Crowley to cooperate, Aziraphale would be more than happy to acquiesce.

“Is that so?” There was that playful tone again, flirty and charming.

Enough to make any Angel fall. “Yes, because you’re a wily serpent and the night is losing its liveliness.” It was too bad Crowley was still hesitant to use it on the right Angel. He turned the prince towards the thrones, situated at the far side of the room . “Go on, Michael’s _right_ there. At least introduce yourself and…” Aziraphale hummed. He had a difficult choice now: to choose between being careful and getting the results they needed. “I’ll do something for you. No questions asked.”

Fuck it, Aziraphale was ready to try anything at this point.

There was a spark of delight in Crowley’s eyes that made Aziraphale regret his terms immediately. “And what if I make her smile on top of that?”

The Angel sputtered. “Don’t get greedy, my dear.” Crowley cocked a brow and a smirk, goading him again, and really, even Aziraphale had to admit it was worth a try. Not only that, but he had never seen Crowley so _enthusiastic_ to intermingle with one of the Divines before.

(Even if he was technically being bribed.)

 _Who knows, this could work in our favor…_ Aziraphale nodded. “…all right, _two_ things then. No questions asked.”

“None?” Crowley pressed and Aziraphale scoffed. 

As if he could deny the prince anything. “You have my word.”

Crowley gave a bright smile and how Aziraphale desperately wished he could take back the offer. “Perfect.” He looked to where the archangel sat upon her throne, overlooking the festivities with her prim, austere demeanor. Crowley shivered from the iciness she exuded alone. He took Aziraphale’s hand and laid a kiss upon it, murmuring, “I’ll be right back, Angel,” before Aziraphale could let out a squeak and pull away.

* * *

Watching Crowley interact with an Archangel was a bit like watching a moth fluttering carelessly into a spider’s snare. Depending on the spider and depending on the moth, there was either a chance at breaking free and escaping, or entrapment and entanglement that lead to certain demise.

Spiders like Gabriel were _ambush predators,_ often entrapping their prey with one-sided agreements to unpaid overtime, meetings, and plans of approved recreation, and then leaving before the victim could protest.

Spiders like Uriel were _pursuit predators_ , silent, single-minded, and relentless in tracking down who she needed and what she wanted to satisfy her own agendas; there was little point in hiding and absolutely no chance at outrunning her in a chase.

And spiders like Michael…spiders like Michael operated on what was known as _ballistic interception_. It began as a waiting game, selecting her prey and internalizing its movements, its escape routes, and its willingness to put up a fight. She studied, calculated, intercepted, and lunged right in for the kill before many could even make their first move.

Aziraphale’s eyes weren’t on Crowley as he sauntered past the crowds and towards God’s Right Hand. No, his eyes were on Michael and how her gaze flitted briefly towards Crowley’s direction and how her mouth twitched to what could almost be a smirk.

There was a stone-drop of apprehension at the pit of Aziraphale’s belly as Crowley approached, something in her unnaturally _cruel_ gaze that made the Angel’s insides squirm.

Crowley was before her now, ready to do a sweeping bow—but Michael held up her hand in pause. She was speaking, not looking directly at Crowley, but searching the ballroom, eyes of a carnivore scouring for her next meal.

Her eyes settled on Aziraphale.

They held gazes for what could have only been a few seconds; nevertheless, the vision of a thousand swords plunging into his body for a split-second was too long for any Angel to endure. Aziraphale flinched beneath her stare before she turned away and addressed the prince in front of her. From where Aziraphale stood, clutching his heart and spilling his wine as his hands tremored, he could see the way Crowley stiffened after a few, choice words from the archangel.

She gestured to the seat next to her; it took a second before the motion registered for Crowley to obey without question.

Now facing the same direction, Crowley was…unreadable beside Michael. No more pouts, no more painfully obvious signs of boredom. A blank slate adjacent to a poised statue. A part of Aziraphale admitted that they made a stunning pair, another part of him believed the sight to be far too unnatural and unnerving to behold.

They were speaking now, and every now and then, Crowley would give a _strange_ sort of smile. Not one that Aziraphale had ever seen before.

It definitely wasn’t a happy one, that was certain.

Aziraphale trailed the spot in the room where Crowley’s gaze rested, half-listening to what Michael was saying, the other half seeming to dissociate from the room, the situation, all together.

_There—_

Oh, of bloody course, it was by the wine.

Good thing too; it seemed that Aziraphale spilled nearly half his glass. The Angel weaved through the crowd, bidding half-hearted, half-intelligible greetings to the attendees, ignoring the whispers and eyes on him, on Michael, on _Crowley_.

Most of the Angels didn’t understand; they thought the prince a spectacle to be made; a wild thing to be tamed by Heaven. But Aziraphale knew better, knew better than anyone of the intelligence, wit, and heart that Crowley possessed. That in all Her kingdom—

—Crowley was the loveliest thing to have sauntered in here to cause trouble.

Aziraphale smiled, meeting Crowley’s line of vision, and absolutely delighting in the way those golden eyes lit up after catching sight of him. _There_ Aziraphale thought. _There’s that handsome smile—_ much better suited on the prince’s handsome face _. Even if his hair does look atrocious_. 

The Angel grinned in turn, giving him a discreet nod. _I trust you, Crowley,_ he wanted it to convey. _You’re a wonderful, gorgeous thing and any archangel would be lucky to call you theirs, lucky that they’d have such a dear and devoted heart to call home,_ were among other thoughts that Aziraphale hoped Crowley didn’t read _too_ perceptibly.

Crowley nodded back, his smile slipping, something almost fragile in the way his lips upturned, the way it looked hopeless and so hopeful at him, wistful and wishing in a way that Aziraphale couldn’t read if there was an ocean of crowd between them or if they were the only two people in the room.

But Aziraphale wanted to. Heaven knows he did.

Then Michael said something, leaning in ever-so-slightly, that washed that wonderstruck look on Crowley’s face. He turned to face her, talking now. There was an anxious wrinkle in his brow despite the lofty, airy way Crowley usually tried to carry himself. A tenseness in his shoulders that refused to move, and a flatline to his lips, erasing any sign of comfort or reassurance that was clear as day just seconds before. Michael covered her mouth with a hand in amusement, her eyes darting towards where Aziraphale stood, _furtive,_ and _knowing_.

_And there it was._

A smile.

A _damned_ smile.

But it was not one that reached Michael’s eyes, melting the frost and rime with jubilance and joy. It was cutting, and sharp, deadly like the blades she carried to battle, something like sanguine mirth and eager bloodlust dancing in them, reveling in victory and savoring the strife.

She locked her eyes with Aziraphale and gave a little wave.

* * *

“Should I ask what happened back there?”

“Best not,” Crowley said, continuing in his refusal to look at Aziraphale after they departed from the festivities.

“Oh?” Aziraphale started uneasily. He’d never seen the Demon shaken like this, but it didn’t surprise him that Michael would be the one to put Crowley off-kilter. He frowned, a flare of protectiveness sparking forth. “What did she say to you, Crowley?” She was the highest ranked and most dangerous of the Archangels, after all.

And Michael was _not_ known to deal with Demons kindly.

“Don’t sound too excited, Angel.” Crowley slumped against their stone bench, the garden’s pond glistening under the moonlight. It was hardly conversation fit for a lovely night’s stroll after a ball. “She’s as reluctant about this entire process as I am. I think that’s the only thing we can really come to agreement.”

 _So…she doesn’t have faith in the marriage either._ Aziraphale’s heart sank further, the realization dawning on him. “Oh…Oh my dear, I’m—”

_I’ve failed you._

“It’s not your fault.” Crowley cut in. “Don’t you ever think that.” Still, the Demon refused to face him. 

Aziraphale immediately wanted to protest. _Of course it is. I should have been better—I should have prepared you, I should have reached out to old contacts, met with the Archangels myself, I should have done **more** , I should have…_

Aziraphale watched as Crowley mindlessly twirled the flower in his hand—an Imperial Snowdrop, the Angel noted with a start— once pinned to his lapel, and he felt guilt consume him.

_I should have never let you use me as practice…_

He should have pushed him harder; wallflowers didn’t win wars and a prince content to spend evenings and galas with the company of his chaperone wouldn’t make for an impressive public presence—Crowley needed to network, socialize, court and woo—but here he was: drinking a night’s failure away with his _incompetent_ Guide.

Aziraphale understood being too fearful of taking the actual steps when too comfortable in the theory. The Angel knew Crowley was comfortable in his company, knew that (aside from mild scolding) that Aziraphale was a soft-hearted fool whose resolved crumbled fantastically under the Demon’s wiles. So, he allowed himself to be courted, be made a test subject, and Aziraphale _enjoyed_ it. Crowley courted _wonderfully_ and maybe Aziraphale should have said something to boost the Demon’s confidence, to let him know that he’s _swooning_ over the attention and care the Demon’s given him, that he was doing a fantastic job—

That any Angel—Divine or otherwise—would be _proud_ to call Crowley theirs.

_Now we’re out of options._

Still, Aziraphale won’t— _can’t_ lose hope. Not now, not when Crowley needed him. “Come now, buck up! It’s not the end of the world,” he soothed, placing a hand on Crowley’s. Startled, the Demon looked to him and Aziraphale did his best to give him an earnest, honest smile. “We’re in this _together_ , my dear. No matter what. I promise you.” First and foremost, Aziraphale was his _Guide_ —and he would follow that duty until blithe or bitter end. And secondly— “And I still owe you a little something, if memory serves correct—”

—He was Crowley’s _friend._ And any friend worth their salt wouldn’t stand to see the one they cared for looking so glum.

Thankfully, that seemed to do the trick, watching the telltale upturn of the prince’s lips at his words. “ _Two_ little somethings, Angel!” the prince smirked, positively glowing in triumph. “I got that gargoyle to smile—”

_“Crowley!”_

“—without breaking any mirrors.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and valiantly tried not to bubble out a laugh. At Crowley’s knowing grin, he knew he failed spectacularly at suppressing a smile. “And now…I believe I’d like to cash in my first request, if you’d please.”

The Angel raised a brow. “Wait, right now?”

“Right now.” Crowley affirmed.

There was that niggling at the back of his thoughts again. The one Aziraphale was starting to believe was an inherent premonition for Crowley-based disasters. Aziraphale sighed, “All right. As we agreed.” It was too bad, however, that Aziraphale intentionally never listened. “What is it that you want, Crowley?”

A flicker of emotion—soft and longing, Aziraphale recognized— flashed through his eyes. The prince opened his mouth, but no voice followed. He pursed his lips and tried again with a shaky breath. “Close your eyes.” 

“Uhm.” The Angel felt his cheeks heat up. “What?”

“I said, _close your eyes_ ,” Crowley repeated, the same inscrutable look on his face from earlier. Up close, however, Aziraphale could see the anxiety furrowing his brow, the slightest tremble in his hands, the stiffness in his posture. “And don’t open them until I say so, okay?”

The Angel narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t going to be a tri—”

 _“Angel?”_ Crowley sighed, making a great show of pouting, his posture laxing immediately. “Our agreement?”

Aziraphale bit back a smile, successful in his attempt this time. As always, despite it all and despite the (rather obvious) warning signs, Aziraphale gave in. “Right, right. I won’t ask since we agreed on it, of course. I’m a Principality of my word—”

“Angel, get on with it.” There was a strain of irritation and desperation there that did little to soothe Aziraphale’s curiosity. 

Nevertheless, with a huff of irritation, Aziraphale complied. He turned to face Crowley, lashes fluttering closed, vision going dark, and wondering for the briefest of moments why the prince’s face had burned such a bright, lovely, red—

And why was he cupping Aziraphale’s cheek, the warmth of his hand just nestled beneath his jaw, thumb brushing against his skin causing blood to rush straight to the Angel’s head, far too fast, far too dizzying for Aziraphale to even _think_ to ask why there was a soft pressure against his mouth, the taste of alcohol and the faintest hint of _something else_ , smoky, spicy, sensual and _addicting_ being presented to his tongue _,_ a heart-stutter of _heat_ and pleasure that coursed down his body that had Aziraphale gasping at the electric flavor—

A gasp that lead to a quiet, frustrated _“Fuck,”_ to fall from Crowley’s lips as he chased the Angel’s mouth, devouring every word, every thought, and every other sense the Angel possessed as he allowed himself to be pinned against the Prince’s lean body, leaving nothing but the feel soft lips, urgent, _desperate_ , and _ravenous—_

He whimpered as those lips slowed, kissing sweetly, _deeply,_ open-mouthed and longing, adoring and apologetic. Once, twice, three more times against Aziraphale’s panting mouth.

There was a fourth; barely a brush of lips, the same hint of Southern wine that left Aziraphale’s thoughts in shambles and body shuddering—

“You can open your eyes now,” Crowley’s quiet, breathy voice commanded. 

Aziraphale blinked away the sparks dancing in vision to Crowley pulling away, a soft smile at the dazed look he must be wearing alongside a berry-red blush. “No questions, remember?” Cool and collected as ever as he stood and turned, singing out a, “ _Good night, Angel_.”

_What._

_WHAT—_

_—the absolute **FUCK** —_

But any thought beyond of that expletive required a few more cogs and wheels in the brain than what Aziraphale currently possessed, given the situation that just took place.

So instead, he called out an absentminded, “M-mind how you go…” his words stammering just as his pulse, especially at the bark of laughter from the prince that followed.

Aziraphale was right.

This Demon was going to end up killing him.

* * *

This Demon was going to end up killing him.

 _“Hot,”_ Aziraphale gasps, crying out as those _wicked, wicked_ hips thrust against him, leaving no mystery of the prince’s desires and his chosen Effort. _“I’m too—it’s too—”_

 _“There, there darling…”_ Crowley coos, not at all contributing to cooling the heat on Aziraphale’s flesh, not with the way his hellfire-warm mouth maps its way across the Angel’s skin, scorching, marking, biting, and **claiming** every inch exposed to him. _“You’ll feel better out of these right? My gorgeous little Bird, that’s right, let me see you,”_ he goads, teases, and _pleads_ as the robes fall from Aziraphale’s shoulders, his chest, and legs, his body slick with sweat and the Effort between his thighs slick with arousal.

And those _golden, lovely_ eyes burn tenderly, lovingly, as they **devour** the sight Aziraphale makes against the Demon’s luxurious, silk sheets.

 _“My Angel.”_ the demon purrs, settling between Aziraphale’s open legs and lifting a thigh to press kisses and bites along the inside, Aziraphale’s breath hitching as he grows nearer and nearer where the Angel aches the most. _“What a lovely offering you’ve given me,”_ he murmurs dipping below to lap and tease at the wet folds.

Crowley rewards the scream Aziraphale gives him with a wet tongue, teasing the opening, nose pressed against the flaxen curls as the muscle pushes inside.

Aziraphale thrashes, fingers twisting at Crowley’s red locks—pushing him away, pulling him deeper, keeping him in place as Crowley withdraws with a breathy chuckle before adoring attention onto the Angel’s clit, flicking, stroking, and wrapping his lips around the hardened pearl.

 _“Crowley, Crowley!”_ Aziraphale whines, begging, beseeching, and Crowley brings the Angel to bliss with two fingers slipping inside him, teasing, stroking, and pleasuring his greedy cunt.

 _“That’s right Angel,”_ the Demon growls and Aziraphale has to stop himself from praying for mercy. _“Let them hear you, let them know what this **wicked** Demon is doing to you_. _”_

Aziraphale moans at the sight of him withdrawing, mouth and chin glistening with his juices, removing his fingers from between his quivering thighs and bringing them to his mouth to lap at the taste. Still, those eyes hunger for him, as Aziraphale laid there, an offering, a _feast_ , chest heaving and fingers gripping at the sheets.

But it is this heat, this fire, this _pleasure_ devours Aziraphale whole and even after the Angel blinks the stars from his eyes, he spreads his legs further where he is empty and _aches_ to be filled, and all but whimpers to Crowley, _“Please…”_

The snarl that erupts from Crowley’s throat should have frightened him, but all it does is make his sex pulse with need.

Aziraphale yelps as Crowley pushes his knees farther apart, cock hard and pearly fluid leaking from the tip presses against his folds. _“You little tease_ ,” the Demon grinds out, grinding shallow thrusts against the Angel’s flower, soaking the head with Aziraphale’s need and desperation. _“Begging to be fucked, now, are we? Begging me to fill up that hungry little cunt of yours right after you came on my fingers and tongue?”_ He leans down, giving a biting, bruising kiss to Aziraphale’s crying mouth. _“You’re moving your hips on your own, little Bird—slipping your wet lips against the head of my cock so nicely and just **begging** for me to push in and take you, is that right?” _

Aziraphale cries out, face red and shame igniting sparks of pleasure down his spine. _“Yes, yes, please Crowley—please—take me, have me, fuck me—”_

 _“Ask and thou shalt receive, Angel.”_ the prince chuckles as he presses inside, Aziraphale screaming in completion a second time—

.

.

Aziraphale startled awake, panting, gasping, and trying _very_ hard to ignore the wetness between his legs as his thoughts rushed back to him in waves.

But there it was.

An _Effort_.

Born from a _blasted_ dream after the _bloody prince_ stole a kiss from him mere hours ago.

(Well. _Kisses_. But that was hardly the point.)

Aziraphale willed the Effort away, a filthy shame creeping up on him as more memories of the dream resurfaced. But the _damned_ thing refused, clenching and aching pitifully and refusing to make itself scarce until orgasm.

Frustrated, tired, and still awaiting the nausea of shock and horror to catch up to him, the Angel pulled his sleeping gown up, shaking hands running a finger against the soaking entrance. Aziraphale stifled a moan, playing those voices— _Crowley’s voice—_ over, and over again as he fingered and teased at his clit.

The shame nipping at his heels made it difficult, however, and so Aziraphale turned over, burying his face into his downy pillow, angling himself better, and shutting out every thought outside of the echoing sound of the Demon’s voice from the depths of his dreams.

Unbidden, other memories surfaced: the feel of his lips, the slide of his tongue, the taste of wine on his mouth from earlier that night, and Aziraphale found himself getting closer and closer to completion.

 _“Oh—oh, Crowley—”_ he moaned, feeling a gush of wetness against his hand and a searing hurt in his heart.

Catching his breath and withdrawing his hand, Aziraphale cursed himself, the Archangels, Crowley, and God.

_This was not good._

* * *

“Angel— _Angel!”_

Crowley stifled a cry as he emptied himself into his hand for the third time that night, chasing the vivid memory of sweet, soft lips and the warm, plump body against his own.

Was it a mistake, kissing his Aziraphale— _several times, mind you—_ like that? Probably.

Was Crowley ruined for all eternity until he could have that mouth on him again? Definitely.

Was it worth it? …Most likely.

If and only if he could get his Angel to surrender those maps without question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I want a slow burn! I want it excruciatingly slow! I want Aziraphale dense as lead, I—  
> Me: I want to write pornography
> 
> 1-They’re wearing their Bastille outfits and we all know Crowley’s hair in that era is a blaring RED on the Waffle House Index.2
> 
> 2-The Waffle House Index: The Waffle House Index is an informal metric used by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) to determine the effect of a storm and the likely scale of assistance required for disaster recovery. “If you get there and the Waffle House is closed? That's really bad...” – description from Wikipedia
> 
> And thus, Aziraphale made the fantastical leap from _Friend_ to _Oh My God I have a Crush and We Just Made Out and Oh by the way, I had a Wet Dream About You._
> 
> I said I was going to eventually increase the maturity rating. Well, this is ‘eventually.’ Also, the Effort Aziraphale presented with this time was decided via coin flip. Did Crowley rig it? Possibly.


	7. Step 5: (Mis)Communication is Key - Holy Water and Hellfire Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things heat up in the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I promise I didn’t leave this story to rot. I already have the ending planned out and everything—it’s just the matter of writing everything in-between.

When daybreak filtered through his windows, Aziraphale hardly had the will to move, let alone get up and begin his day. But he had a duty to fulfill and his own hurricane of regrets and questions be damned, he had to buck up and get right to it.

Even if his stomach did sink with its weight in lead at the very thought of approaching Crowley after what transpired last night.

 _No_ —not the—not _that_ part of last night—the kiss! Yes, the _kiss!_ And damn the Demon for his, his—wiles! Aziraphale knew he should have retracted that little caveat of _No questions asked_ but—

It was too late for that now.

It wasn’t like—it hadn’t even _meant_ anything. Of course it wouldn’t. It was—it was probably for _practice,_ an experiment designed to gauge how comfortable an Angel would be to receive such a bold and brash show of romantic action, or something equally ridiculous. It could even be a Demonic custom of some sort.

Regardless of the root of the matter, Crowley—Crowley was a _prince_ and _princes_ had no business kissing Principalities when they were to be betrothed to an Archangel. It didn’t matter if Aziraphale’s heart squeezed with pinprick thorns at the thought of Crowley wedded off to one of them—powerful and beautiful as they were—it didn’t matter if he’d miss the time spent with the infuriating, wonderful Prince of Hell, didn’t matter if he’d gone and torn apart something Aziraphale had kept distant and closed, petal by petal, because…

Because none of it mattered.

He had to remember his place. He had a duty to fulfill. He can’t let his people—and Crowley—down. Whatever it was, whatever was brewing up a fuss in his mind and a storm in his heart had absolutely no place in his line of duty.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured as he washed up. “Things will be all right. There’s no need to get all worked up.” He looked down to his hands as he wrung the towel, Crowley’s ring gleaming brilliantly on his finger. He shut his eyes and sighed. “It doesn’t mean anything at all. And this…” He held his hand to his breast, feeling the dull, achy thuds behind the cage of his ribs tick along sadly. “This will come to pass.”

There was a fracture of some kind, splintering, sharp, and searing deep within his chest, but Aziraphale kept a stiff upper lip and got about his day.

* * *

It was easy enough to forget—even for a moment—what troubles clouded Aziraphale’s mind.

After all, whenever Crowley made a spectacle of himself, it was quite difficult to think of anything else other than mitigating the damage that was sure to follow. “What in the—Crowley, _what_ _are you doing?!”_ Aziraphale shrilled as he dove after the— _foolish, stupid, **idiot!** —_prince right as he took a swan-dive off the cliff. Panic seized at his throat. In hindsight, at the very least, the ground levels were staggered to where even if Crowley _did_ dive off the deep end (literally and figuratively), he would have sustained much less damage from the fall.

Of course, that didn’t stop Aziraphale from flying off after him.

“Oh, good morning, Angel!” Crowley greeted blithely, giving a short wave as though Aziraphale weren’t currently hoisting him by the waist as Principality’s wings flapped erratically to keep them aloft.

_This Demon was going to end up killing him._

Aziraphale huffed, hoping that he looked more visibly annoyed than in the aftermath of absolute terror as he lowered them to the clifftops. “Again Crowley— _what_ were you doing?” the angel demanded once both pairs of feet were set firmly on the ground.

Crowley gave a shrug—no, not his usual devil-may-care gesture whenever he wanted to annoy the absolute divinity right out of Aziraphale’s wavering patience. It was the same one he used whenever he was downright _nervous_ about what he was going to say, whenever he wasn’t sure Aziraphale would like his answer. “Just. Practicing flying.”

The Angel, of course, was dubious of this response. There wasn’t much flying involved from where he could see. Falling, definitely. Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “I thought you said Demons couldn’t fly.”

His shoulders tensed in annoyance. “I know.” Annoyance or something else. Something like reluctance or resignation. He paused, opening his mouth and closing it. He tried again, this time actually managing to get the words out. “You said—you said the courtship flight was important.”

Aziraphale felt his heart soften. “Oh. Yes it—well it usually is, but given the circumstances, I…” He gave a swallow at the look of utter frustration on the Demon’s face. He then noticed the dirt streaking the other’s robes and the bruises on his arms from what was likely an unpleasant landing. Aziraphale winced. Just how long had Crowley been doing this?

“I can do it. I know I can. It just…it just takes some time to remember what it’s like, that’s all.” He flashed Aziraphale what he probably hoped was a confident smile, but all it did was make Aziraphale ache in sympathy.

His dear friend—he was trying so hard for this courtship to work out. Why couldn’t anyone else see his efforts?

 _They don’t’ deserve him_ something dark and quiet whispered in the crevices of his thoughts and Aziraphale tamped it down immediately. “Dear…you know…I was thinking.” 

“A dangerous occupation, Dove,” Crowley smirked and Aziraphale tried not to sputter at the moniker.

“I was _thinking_ — that maybe Bentley could help you in this regard.” He watched as the gears turned in Crowley’s head at the idea.

“Would it be impressive enough, is what I’m wondering,” he murmured, ruminating further. He looked to Aziraphale, deliberating, searching, and…hoping? “Did she impress you, Angel?”

 _She terrified the living daylights out of me and to be honest, she still does._ “Exceedingly so, Crowley,” Aziraphale nodded with a tight smile. “And you two fly so—so well together too!”

Crowley flew his dragon like a madman. Had it not been for Aziraphale reprimanding Crowley nearly half the time they were on the wing together, the unruly dragon would have been satisfied with catapulting, cannonballing, and careening off in the skies all the way to Old End. Aziraphale suppressed a shudder as images of their flight resurfaced, his screams painting the night. Impressive? _Yes_. But perhaps not in all the right ways.

Crowley gave a brilliant smile at the memory and some of that tension eased in Aziraphale’s heart. “She’s taken a shine to you,” he added, rather unexpectedly. He almost looked proud.

Maybe even fond. “O-oh?” Ah. _Right_. The erm…gifts she gave him, back at the island. Aziraphale felt his stomach churn as he smiled back with a bit of force. “Well, that’s very sweet—she’s…” _Unruly. Unpredictable. Stubborn. Sadistic._ _A thing of great terror and beauty. A true force of nature._ “Very nice.”

 _Just like her master. “Nice?”_ Crowley scoffed, brushing the dust off his robes. “Not exactly the first thing one thinks of when describing a fire-breathing hellion like her, right?” He gave a wolfish grin and to Aziraphale’s utter horror, found a strange heat spreading through his cheeks.

“Well, she most certainly is _nice_ ,” the Principality defended. Probably no thanks to Crowley.

“To _you_ , Angel.” He chuckled and while Crowley didn’t say it outright, Aziraphale was sure that he’d just been granted a rare and fine honor by the prince for somehow getting on Bentley’s good side. “You know…since you two get along so well, maybe I can show you a little something.” He moved forward, taking Aziraphale by the arm, something he’d blithely done countless time—

And yet, the action ended up wholly flustering Aziraphale.

“S-show me?” To which the Angel startled and hastily pulled away with a frantically beating heart.

Crowley paused, frowning. He looked at the distance between them and Aziraphale fought the urge to squirm under his gaze. His eyes were completely unreadable. Then, the Demon turned. “Yeah. But not here. Elsewhere.”

“Like…?” the Angel prodded, feet moving on their own to catch up.

“Over by the edge of the falls, like before. We won’t get interrupted there.” And then Crowley turned back, a sly grin on his face. “No one to hear us either.”

“Erm…” _Hear_ what _, exactly?_

“Are you coming or not, Dove?”

Aziraphale sputtered, feet reluctantly moving forward. “Y-yes, fine!”

* * *

They’d gone back to bickering—for better or for worse.

Aziraphale felt a throbbing tick of irritation and repressed the urge to stammer in embarrassment. Honestly, just what is _irritation of a royal_ playing at? “Crowley for the last time—”

“C’mon, Angel, it’s not that bad—”

“—it’s completely _ridiculous_!” he cried out, arms crossed, and lips fixed to a pout.

“That’s never stopped you before!” Crowley backtracked immediately at the stone-dead stare he received in turn. “Oh, come now…” he soothed, trying to wheedle the Angel into getting his way, and getting _far_ _too close—!_ Crowley paused. “Something the matter, Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked, somehow a foot or four away from where he originally sat. “W-what? Oh, no! Nothing.” Aziraphale winced.

_Not exactly convincing, was that?_

At the very least, Crowley wasn’t calling him out on it. Because there was _clearly_ something wrong and it had nothing to do with Crowley but had everything to do with an Angel who up and went and complicated everything from nothing. _This is nothing, you foolish Principality._ “It’s nothing at all.”

The prince looked concerned now. He cautiously shuffled closer, like Aziraphale were some wild animal he risked spooking with any sudden movements. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it…?”

 _No—_ no, talking is the _absolute_ last thing Aziraphale wanted—there was nothing _to_ talk about—! And besides…

“You said there’d be no questions asked—”

Sea-storm eyes widened. Aziraphale wanted the ground to swallow him where he stood. Or, at the very least, swallow the words he’d just up and let slip from his mouth. He turned hastily away, busying himself with calling out to the dozing dragon again, watching with failing hope for an intervention as the damned beast only lifted her head for a moment and set herself back down to bask in the afternoon sun.

Beside him, Crowley could only gape.

It could have been disgust that the Angel was feeling. It could be that Crowley had doomed them utterly and irrevocably by not only crossing the line, but dashing right past it and hurtling the Angel right along with him into unknown territory. But Aziraphale’s _nervous, **flustering**_ couldn’t be explained by repulsion and reluctance.

He’d spent a long time watching his Angel. He knew nearly every flash of emotion that painted itself across his face. Knew every sigh of annoyance, tick of irritation, beam of happiness, downcast of guilt, and tight-lipped smile of dread and disappointment. And _this—_ this blushing, antsy, and squirming mess his Angel had become—simply did not radiate _rejection_ at Crowley’s presence.

A strange, dizzying hope captivated, enthralled him. It rooted and bloomed in his chest as Aziraphale vehemently refused to look at him, but even the afternoon sun did little to hide the rosy tint that spread across his cheeks. Crowley’s heart thudded, raced, and ached. Did the kiss work? Did he finally get his Angel to think of him as more than a burden, an obligation?

A _friend?_

“I-I mean, no, there’s absolutely _nothing_ to talk about!” his Angel added hurriedly when Bentley provided absolutely zero aid to the situation.

His angel was still proving to be stubborn. Of course, Crowley knew this would arise, knew that his Angel, his sweet, loyal Aziraphale, was sworn to his duty. Maybe even to the point of foregoing his own heart—but _no,_ Crowley couldn’t give up now. Not when he’d come so far, not when his plan could free them both from this rotten fate.

The prince licked his lips, tingling at the memory of the lovely time they had the night before. _I still have another favor,_ he realized. Maybe if he demanded the truth, Aziraphale would have nowhere to run off to and hide. He’d reveal his heart and Crowley would gladly offer his in return. It could certainly save him all the grief and give them what they both want and Crowley—

Crowley wanted _answers._

But as a Demon…he knew full well the dangers of _asking questions_. No, he won’t risk it. If he were to outright ask, Aziraphale might even deny his own heart out of responsibility and loyalty to his cause. It would be better to gauge Aziraphale’s reactions through more direct methods of courting. He’d been too subtle— at least to his oblivious bird. 

Crowley also needed to consider that he needed that request for his plans. Playing Demon’s advocate, however, if he successfully wooed his Angel, that alone might be enough to convince him.

_Decisions, decisions._

Crowley wordlessly called out to his stubborn dragon. Bentley lazily groused as she lumbered over to them, giving a nuzzle to an alarmed Aziraphale just because she loved his reactions so much. The prince let out a laugh, finding bittersweet irony that his own dragon knew his heart sooner than the Angel he had every intention of giving it to. He reached over to pet her snout, _accidentally_ leaning a little too close to Aziraphale who sat between them. From the corner of his vision, he watched as Aziraphale deliciously reddened at their proximity.

Crowley bit back a smile. “If you’re sure, Angel.”

He decided then: if Aziraphale refused to speak his mind, maybe his body would be far more honest. His request could wait. Besides, Crowley was fairly sure he knew what all this flustering meant.

“Of course I’m sure!” Aziraphale (somehow) managed to get out without stammering.

He’s sure that all this flustering meant that Aziraphale _wanted_ him.

Crowley chuckled. “Whatever you say, Dove,” snickering as Aziraphale valiantly again tried to hide his blush from view.

_Just as I’m sure you’ve stumbled, love, I’m sure you’ll fall for me soon._

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t know how much more he could take.

Crowley had suggested they break for lunch not too long afterwards and from there, it all went downhill. The prince escorted them to the carriage, _taking his hand_ as he stepped inside, and sitting far too close beside him. Every jolt from the uneven paths sent Crowley pressing up against him, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, though he seemed to take no mind whatsoever. _Sure,_ Crowley had taken to draping himself over his Guide from time to time, especially after long, tiring nights, but it was barely midday! And each time Aziraphale tried to put some distance between them, Crowley would follow suit until the Guide was sandwiched between the Prince and the solid walls of the coach.

Lunch didn’t fare any better as Aziraphale nearly swallowed a spoon when Crowley offered to _feed_ him. It absolutely did _not_ help as when he began choking, Crowley announced, _Not to worry, Angel, I know mouth-to-mouth!_

After that fiasco, during which a confused waiter had to pry the prince off him, they ended up splitting dessert. Aziraphale brightened at that, always excited to have his friend try the rich delicacies of the kingdom. However, just as he’d began explaining the intricate process of tempering the chocolate to create the smooth, rich, and creamy texture, Crowley used that opportunity to take a bite of cake right off the Angel’s fork.

 _It’s good,_ he said, licking his lips. _I’ll have more._

Aziraphale didn’t know how he ended up feeding Crowley the rest of the Black Forest gateau, or why he didn’t ask Crowley to use his own silverware, but the Angel could find no sound reason other than the blood rushing to his head clouding his concentration and judgment.

During the ride back, Crowley claimed he wanted an afternoon doze and spent the journey back to the castle grounds with an arm over his Guide and burrowing his head at the curve of Aziraphale’s neck. Which, again, wasn’t exactly too unusual for the pair. At least, that was the mantra Aziraphale had been repeating for the entire duration of the ride, all the while praying that the heat of his blush didn’t scrawl down his neck where Crowley could feel it. 

And to make matter worse, Crowley nearly took a stumble out of the carriage when they’d arrived, needing Aziraphale to keep him upright and support him as they walked back to the grounds as his “foot fell asleep.”

And now…Aziraphale found himself in _this_ predicament:

“W-what’s gotten into you!” the Angel sputtered, adorably red-faced with his brows furrowed. “Did you take a tumble to the head? Oh, good _Lord_ you actually _did_ smash your head on a rock, didn’t you?”

Crowley chuckled, shrugging as though he hadn’t just crowded Aziraphale up against the tower’s walls with the excuse of _tripping_ and _needing to someone to steady him_. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Angel.”

Those pouty lips set themselves to a frown. “You’ve been—clumsier.” _And handsy_. “Have you lost all depth perception?” Aziraphale fought the urge to blush and mostly succeeded when Crowley did nothing more than grin at him, handsome face illuminated by the rosy sunset behind him. Still, it wasn’t hard to suppress and repress—not when guilt was nipping at his heels.

Crowley was quiet for a long while. Then, finally, “Are all angels _this_ oblivious?” He peered down at Aziraphale, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. Heat pooled at Aziraphale’s belly and he squirmed under the prince’s gaze. “Or did I just get lucky?”

Aziraphale’s heart leapt to his throat but it came crashing down within an instant. “O-oh.” No, no…it can’t—that can’t possibly be what Crowley meant. _He’s just—using you for **practice** , you pathetic thing!_ “Crowley, erm…” Aziraphale swallowed; the truth was always such a bitter, bitter thing to. “My dear, I don’t think that approach would be wise to u-use on an Archangel.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “They tend to dislike—”

“I’m not asking about what _they_ like, Angel.” Crowley pressed closer, this time backing up him up flat against the cool stone walls. “I’m asking _you_ ,” he murmured, hand cupping Aziraphale’s cheek and forcing him to meet the prince’s burning gaze. “Do you like it?” Aziraphale swallowed down the humiliating noise that threatened to escape his mouth. “Do you like it when I’m this close to you?” The Angel felt the very tips of his ears burn; emboldened by the reaction, Crowley leaned down, a breath’s width away from Aziraphale’s own lips, eager, _hungry,_ to take another kiss. “Or do you want me to be… _closer_?”

Aziraphale gasped, almost— _almost_ forgetting himself. “C-Crowley!” He can’t—the prince was taking this _too_ far, _We can’t possibly…he can’t actually mean—_

Crowley gripped him by the arm, just as he’d began to scarper away. “Don’t run away from me, Aziraphale.” Something in his voice, dark, demanding, and maybe even a bit desperate, set a shiver down the Angel’s spine. Crowley leaned in, whispering with the faintest hint of temptation and promise in his words: “Believe me, Dove. I won’t let you get very far.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Ice encased Aziraphale’s heart as he wrenched away, a cold sliver of fear dropping to the pit of his belly. “ _No_ — _!”_

 _“Yesss,”_ Crowley hissed out as he stepped away from his Guide. “What do you want, Ligur?” 

The footman bowed deep and low, exaggerated and mocking. “Prince _Crawley_ …” He made his way to them from where he lurked by the shadows of the overhanging gate. “A message from the King,” he announced, handing over a heavy scroll engraved with the royal crest.

Crowley eyed it with disinterest. “I’ll see to it soon enough,” he said, waving him off. “As you were.” The prince ignored the sharp gasp from his Angel and his own nauseating dread. It wouldn’t do to show weakness. Not now. Not when he’d _foolishly_ put them both in danger.

“Of course, my liege,” the Demon drawled, giving yet another mocking bow as he slipped away, back into the shadows.

Aziraphale tried to calm his fluttering heart. _No,_ this wasn’t good—they had the wrong idea, it wasn’t—this wasn’t— He turned to Crowley and noted with concern that he was…trembling. His eyes were hard and unreadable, seeming at a loss for words. “This matter seems…urgent,” Aziraphale said softly. He reached out, soothing his shoulder and startling Crowley from his spell. “Maybe you should—”

Crowley took his hand in his, squeezing them tightly, beseechingly, reassuringly. “Meet me at the third alternative rendezvous point come moonrise.” He pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s palm, where his own ring and crest glittered under the dying beams of the sun.

He then drew away, leaving the Guide in a daze with his heart in his throat. “Wait, Crowley!” The prince stilled as Aziraphale clutched the sleeves of his robes. He looked back at Aziraphale, hopeful and waiting. But all Aziraphale could muster out was, “Is that one the park fountain or the clocktower?”

Crowley groaned, rolling his eyes so hard, his entire head rolled with them. “The _clocktower!”_

* * *

That all went down like a lead balloon.

The Demon paced about, eyeing the rafters and stairs for any signs of movement, anything out of place that would indicate prying eyes and ears. He silently cursed himself as the day’s light faded, leaving nothing but the malicious dark, the perilous unknown. Crowley had no one to blame but himself. He’d gotten complacent when he should have been on his guard—what was he doing, being so _rash_ out in the open, on castle grounds no less? He cursed himself for believing the quiet weeks had meant reprieve; cursed himself for thinking they had more time.

Harried steps came from the stairs and Crowley swiveled around, some of the tension easing when his Guide’s familiar head poked through the entryway.

Catching sight of him, the Angel breathed a sigh of relief. “Crowley…” He made his way over, the anxiety in his eyes deepening as he took in the prince’s frazzled appearance. “What’s happened, dear?”

“Angel, I…” _This was it._ “There isn’t much time.” _This was now or never._ “I’m sorry Angel, I’m so sorry, this isn’t your fault—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale reached over, soothing his arm. “Did they reprimand you?” He sighed, deep and wounded. “They have to understand that courting—courting takes time! And, blast it, the Archangels should be pulling their weight on this too! A marriage takes compromise and collaboration, and—”

Crowley felt his heart swell for this sweet, sympathetic bird. Too kind, too naïve—Crowley had to get them out of this mess before they targeted his Guide next. “It’s all right, it’s all right. Forget the engagement.” He hushed him before the sputtering and protests started. “Angel…I have a plan.” Crowley reached into his coat pocket and fished out a parchment. “In case the walls have ears,” he murmured. “You still owe me, remember?”

Hesitantly, with questioning eyes, Aziraphale took it and unfolded it. “Walls have—what?” He peered down at the single word and racked his brain trying to make sense of it.

_Maps_

Aziraphale shook his head. “What do you mean…” When had they discussed anything relating to cartography? He had a small collection, somewhere within the organized chaos of his quarters, but nothing too noteworthy. Well, other than those maps he had err borrowed from the old cartographer. In fact, he might have mentioned them to Crowley during that rainy night in Old End—

_The maps to The Other Side._

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as the meaning sank in, making him shudder violently at the realization. “ _Crowley!”_ He searched the other’s eyes for an explanation—anything other than the horrifying conclusion Aziraphale came to. But Crowley only stared steadily back, grim and somber. He shook his head. “You can’t—”

“Angel—” he started, moving closer when all Aziraphale wanted was to gather as much distance between them as possible. “With those maps, we can make it out of here, _you_ and _me_ —”

 _That was what he wanted?_ In the end, that’s what Crowley was asking?

To _escape?_

Another realization struck him, nearly knocking Aziraphale clean off his feet as he came to a _sickening_ understanding. Of Crowley’s behavior, of Crowley’s _courting—_ he hadn’t been trying out another method to woo an Archangel when he’d kissed Aziraphale that night—

No…he’d been trying to deceive Aziraphale, making the Principality play into the palm of his hand.

 _All to give him what he wanted._ “Was _this_ what it was all about?” Aziraphale demanded. _Anger_. _Humiliation_. Both burned and boiled under Aziraphale’s skin until they consumed themselves, leaving only the cold ashes of nausea at the pit of his stomach and a searing hurt in his chest. “You were just trying to get ahold of my _maps?”_

Crowley shook his head, stepping towards him, trying to cross the space between them. “The maps are necessary, obviously, but—”

“No, they _aren’t_ —not unless you plan on…on giving up!” Sea-storm eyes glared back at him, _challenging_ Crowley to tell him otherwise, that he wasn’t just abandoning everything they’ve worked for. Everything _Aziraphale_ had worked for. But he was met with silence once more, and Aziraphale felt himself drown in despair and disbelief. “That’s what you’re doing, aren’t you? Crowley, how could you…”

_I thought…I thought we were on the same side…were you plotting this escape this entire time?_

Aziraphale felt hot, angry tears well up at the corner of his eyes. “How could you turn your back on everything? On everyone?”

_Including me?_

Crowley wanted to scream in frustration. _No, no, this wasn’t going according to plan—his Angel's got it all wrong, it’s not **like** that, it’s not— _“Would you just _listen to me?!”_

 _It’s **exactly** like that._ Aziraphale, _his_ Aziraphale turned away, shaking his head softly. “I’m done listening, Crowley.” He squeezed his eyes tight, shuddering out a breath. “I can’t give you those maps.”

Crowley felt hollow. Like everything—faith, love, agony, and regret spilt out of his very corporation, left to rot and fester on the ground between them. All that was left was a roiling resentment. “Can’t? Or won’t?” he bit out. _You idiot, you foolish, **foolish** bird—this wasn’t just for me—_

 _This was for **us.**_ “Does it matter?” Aziraphale scoffed bitterly. “I’m done with this conversation.” Gathering courage amid the bitterness and betrayal, he began to walk away.

Away from Crowley and his dishonest demands. “I thought…I thought you would understand,” he said as Aziraphale reached the stairs.

Breathing in a deep, forlorn sigh, Aziraphale glared back at him, a raw, aching hurt in his eyes. “How could I understand you damning our kingdoms to war?” He started down the steps. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but we both have our sworn duties.”

“Your duty before your own heart, eh?” Crowley shot back, but Aziraphale was already gone. With no one to judge him, Crowley collapsed against a beam, sliding down to the dusty floors as he gazed out into the open night.

Aziraphale was _gone._

“I should have known.” Gone and left Crowley atop a broken clocktower, the minutes and hours ticking by too fast, out of tempo, and out of tune from one another. He sighed, feeling a thousand thorns embed themselves deep into his own, bleeding heart. “I should have known.”

* * *

_He has a bloody dragon,_ Aziraphale realized, just as he rounded the corner towards his quarters. _He has a bloody dragon and basically nothing to stop him from escaping out into wilds of The Other Side where he’d get lost, get hurt, and smash his head on a bloody **rock—**_

Aziraphale rounded back, scurrying over to the clocktower where he hoped to find Crowley right where he’d left him.

But those plans soon went awry as he nearly collided with two figures in the shadows. Aziraphale skidded to a halt as one of Crowley’s…unsavory footmen emerged towards the firelight. “Ah…the Principality,” Ligur sneered. 

“No smarmy quips today?” Hastur asked as he shed the shadows like a second skin.

“Gentlemen,” Aziraphale nodded, suddenly very nervous and suddenly very scared. “Is there a reason you two are…lurking by my quarters?”

The two glanced at each other, sharing a slimy smirk. “We’ve received word from the King, as you well know. But something we were ordered _not_ to share with the prince is that he is sending a few of his lords here to Heaven.”

Hastur retrieved the heavy scroll, emblazoned with Hell’s crest. Aziraphale eyed the mark with a shudder, the imagery of the coiling serpent sinking its fangs into the breast of a mighty winged beast gleaming back at him. He gingerly took it from the footman’s hands as Hastur added, “He requests for you to meet them to discuss Prince Crawley’s…progress.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale corrected with a scowl. He narrowed his eyes. “Why is Prince Crowley made to be unaware of this meeting?”

“He did not take well to being reminded of the…pressures instilled upon him by the King,” Ligur said, seeming to wince at the recent memory. “The King knew of this and knew he would be resistant to any guidance offered to him. Ideally, we would give him a few days to cool off. He’s quite prone to…lashing out, as you may know. But the lords are fast approaching and we cannot delay their stay.”

“Yes, it must be very difficult for him, what with our two kingdoms’ peace riding on his shoulders,” Hastur drawled with a frown and a _tsk_. Yet, Aziraphale saw no sympathy in those dark, dark eyes. 

Aziraphale bit his lip. He knew to be wary of the two, but… He read through the scroll and indeed, it was there, penned and signed by the King of Hell himself. It was made abundantly clear today that Aziraphale—that Aziraphale had _failed_ in his duty as the prince’s Guide. Crowley’s lost hope in his purpose—in _their_ purpose _—_ and was desperate enough to make a run for it, going so far as to try and beguile a mere Principality as an exit strategy.

Aziraphale’s chest twinged at the fresh wound, but he ignored it. He had to focus on his role and responsibilities and how to best help Crowley. How to best help their kingdoms. “Indeed,” he nodded. “Well then, what should I bring in preparation to this meeting?”

“Only yourself,” Ligur said, drawing closer and closer to the Principality. “You are his _Guide_ after all. Your input on how to progress through the courtship and engagement to the Archangels will be invaluable.”

Close enough to perhaps even scent fear. “Yes, we are assured that you’re doing your best,” Hastur added, closing in on the lone, cagey bird, and something like a smile curled sourly on his lips. “The prince just happens to be…a stubborn, indolent thing.”

“A bit of a problem child, he is,” Ligur nodded with amusement. 

Aziraphale felt a surge of protectiveness well up within him. “ _Don’t_ —”

“Oh, don’t get us wrong, Principality Aziraphale,” Hastur offered placatingly. “Like you said, _We’re all on the same side._ ”

“The meeting is to help Prince _Crowley_ achieve our goals of peace, after all,” Ligur added. 

“All right,” Aziraphale said, a dizzying drop of dread, of _doubt_ stirring in his gut. “And the meeting will be here, at the coordinates written?”

Hastur nodded. “Yes, by sundown, tomorrow.”

 _So soon?_ “Well. Then I shall go…prepare.” And as Aziraphale turned, he couldn’t be sure if it had just been a trick of the firelight or if he actually saw the twin, cruel grins shared between the Demons.

His heart thundered with anxiety, stammering right against his ribs as he reached for the door towards his rooms.

“Oh, one more thing…” Aziraphale nearly jolted at the how _close_ Ligur sounded; he found with little surprise that the Demon had been right behind him as he swiveled around. “You must not tell any of your…winged brethren of this.”

“We don’t want to lose face before the other birds,” Hastur elaborated. “If they feel that Prince Crowley’s attempts have been…inadequate, it could be seen as an offense to the treaty. They may lose hope in the symbol of the prince’s engagement if our…difficulties were made public.”

“Do you understand, Principality Aziraphale?” Ligur asked, sounding more like a threat than a question.

Aziraphale swallowed. “You have my word,” he said, feeling very much like he’d pleaded guilty. “I’ll be there. I will tell no one.”

Guilty and faced with execution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, imagine if I took a 3-month hiatus on this chapter instead. And yes, they did have the bandstand as a rendezvous point (the fourth rendezvous point in this story), but I really wanted the clocktower for symbolism and all that.
> 
> I do want to sincerely apologize for putting off this story for so long. Real life has been tough given the current situation and I felt more inclined to work on and finish shorter projects that felt like less commitment than working on this fic which had been a love letter to myself for getting back into writing after so many years. But I do love this fic and I swear that I'm not giving up on it. I want to see this fic through to the very end and I want to thank each and every one you, the readers, who're taking this journey with me.


	8. Step 6: (Don't) Lose Faith - Holy Water and Hellfire Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale comes to a conclusion.
> 
> (and probably not the right one.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all thought you saw the last of me, huh? Well—
> 
> Don’t worry, I’m surprised too. BUT I’M HERE! All joking aside I AM finishing this piece, 100%.
> 
> special thanks to @nemuendo on discord for betaing this chapter and giving their amazing advices and suggestions!~ ❤ thank you so much for all your hard work!

It was some ways from the capitol, two day’s journey on the wing, but fortunately Aziraphale and his own wingspan (plus some begrudging military training) had made it possible for him to keep himself aloft without need for rest.

That didn’t mean his wings weren’t sore like the dickens of course.

Aziraphale had traced the coordinates given to him to an infamous fortress: a former battle site that was set ablaze with hellfire and the blood of his people. It had been the closest Hell had come to Heaven’s capitol before the surviving Infernal forces were overwhelmed by Divine reinforcements. Sadly, aid came too late to save the Angels holding down one of the last lines of defense they had. It was a grim day, Aziraphale remembered, as a trainee hearing of the lives lost in this battle. Colleagues, friends, family—lost to senseless slaughter and purposeless politics.

Aziraphale could only pray that history would not repeat itself. 

“Oh…this won’t bode well. This won’t bode well at all, will it…”

Aziraphale dithered as the winds held him aloft, the sun slowly making its descent across the celestial planes as the countryside below him ran on endlessly. Despite the breathtaking view, the pleasant drafts he drifted upon, the landscape so quaint and peaceful outside of the hustle and bustle of the castletown, Aziraphale felt himself entirely thrown into the hurricanes of discord.

The thing was—Aziraphale was no fool. He was kindhearted, naïve, and a _tad_ too gullible for his own good (at least, that was what Gabriel had always said) but he was certainly _no_ fool. Those malicious looks between Crowley’s footmen laid out everything he needed to know; Aziraphale was well aware of what exactly he was walking into. 

A trap, likely. Perhaps even a reprimand and a heinous attempt at his own life. All because two nosey footmen (and probably other ears and eyes) stuck their snouts in a few _questionable_ scenes and smeared the reality of it with tints of deception and a slathering of assumptions.

Which, again, were entirely untrue: of course they had been hard at work!

( _Or hardly working,_ a voice, sounding suspiciously like Crowley, drawled in the dark depths of his mind.)

Or… at least Aziraphale had been.

He shook the thoughts loose from his head; he’d deal with Crowley at a later time. He had enough of a mess to slog through and he didn’t need the Prince’s apparent lack of faith in _“their”_ cause on top of it. 

Aziraphale bit his lip as a gust of wind lifted him higher over the cottony pinks and sleepy blues that dotted the skies.

He just needed… some time to talk to Crowley. Perhaps the poor Prince had been scared; he’d been especially off-kilter since that night…Aziraphale felt his cheeks redden, appreciative for the privacy the clouds afforded him. _No, not **that** part of the night!_ Whatever conversation took place with Michael must have terrified the poor dear! 

Yes, there must be _some_ disconnect there. Crowley had been going along quite well with their plans—and, _sure_ he was met with some resistance—but they were mostly due to the Archangels being _entirely_ unwilling to give Crowley a chance! If they’d only met them halfway, saw Crowley for the lovely, charming, and sweet gentleman he was underneath his mischievous trappings they might—

_Feel for him as you do?_

Aziraphale sputtered midflight, wings catching awkwardly at a gust of air as he broke focus and concentration as the winds around him failed. 

_Falling._

That was what was happening to Aziraphale. Sailing downwards from the skies, holding his cloak tighter to himself as droplets clung to his form with only his wings to stop him from plummeting to the ground. He folded them open, wide and strong to break his momentum, gliding to a natural stop as his feet found land. There, Aziraphale looked about himself, estimating that he should be close enough to make it to the meeting site on foot now. 

It didn’t take more than a few minutes trekking through the wood to find the desolate, crumbling ruins of an old defense base as the sun bloodied the skies with its dying glow.

The old battleground reeked of death and hellfire and his instincts blared at the Principality to turn back. Yet, every bit of this kindhearted, naïve, and a _tad_ too gullible Angel was going to ignore them anyways.

((He’d been doing that at every opportunity; why stop now?)) 

Besides, Aziraphale had to attend. He had to set things right.

He just needed to convince them that there was a misconception—Crowley hadn’t been endangering the treaty by whatever it is Hastur and Ligur _thought_ they saw, that whatever lies and hearsay they’d conjured to poison Hell’s views of Crowley’s drives and dispositions were simply that; that the Prince of Hell had only his kingdom’s peace in mind, and that Crowley had only been _pretending_ to court a lowly Guide for some maps—

…maps that said Prince was trying to get to _escape_ out of this situation.

 _Right_. 

Aziraphale had to reframe that bit. Regardless! It was all a misunderstanding. Crowley had only been shaken in his faith, not deterred from his duties, and Aziraphale—

—Aziraphale had failed him. 

Ultimately, it was his duty as Prince Crowley’s _guide_ to do just that: guide him through Heaven’s culture, Celestial courting, and navigating through the treacherous waters of courting an _Archangel_. More than that, he was the Prince’s bridge between two kingdoms, a confidant, a _friend_.

Aziraphale had to make it right. The blame was not Crowley’s. He shouldered the weight of his own misgivings and it was only fair that he corrected them.

With that, Aziraphale stepped through the stone arches and made his way into the dark.

* * *

Feeling his energy drained from the long flight, Aziraphale stepped further into the ruins feeling a trickle of trepidation race down his spine; even decades later, the grounds smelt of sulfur and the rot of flesh. The demonic energy that made itself an abode in the old fort sank its roots to the very core of the land and caused its abandonment in the first place. It seemed that no amount of holy water could cure the ailing soil of the devastation it bore on their kingdom’s history.

The sun had just set when Aziraphale entered, and the long shadows of night stretched treacherously against the candleflame Aziraphale had taken with him to the seemingly empty fortress.

Seemingly.

The lit torches and candelabras in the main hall told him otherwise.

Aziraphale kept his wits about him, bowing low to a concealed audience. “My lords,” he murmured to shadows and silence. “I am Aziraphale, Principality and Guide to Prince Crowley of Hell.”

“His Guide _…_ ” A voice to his right, a shadow animating to a figure shrouded in darkness, growled. “How _delightful_.”

“A _Principality,_ no less…” another murmured to his left with little interest and much disdain as a black shape slunk forward.

But it was the snarl of outright hostility no twenty paces before him that made the hairs rise at the back of his neck. “Is this pitiful Bird the cause of our _dear_ Prince’s disobedience?” 

“H-hang on now—” Aziraphale fumbled, not quite sure which direction to face. “If I may, that’s not—”

“A _lowly_ Bird…” The Guide fought the urge to swivel around in a defensive stance as another joined the chorus directly behind him. “Prince Crawley really has no shame…”

Although a group of crows were called a _murder*..._ “Now wait a minute!” he flustered at the insinuation, _carefully_ turning to face the presence breathing down his neck. Aziraphale was not surprised (or amused) to find emptiness awaiting him. “If you’d _please—_ I’m here to clear up some misunderstandings.” He cleared his throat, regaining composure; it wouldn’t do to be so undiplomatic before these…diplomats, after all. Speaking of which: “Come out from the dark. You may be Godless creatures, but there’s no need to act like Godless heathens.”

After a tick of silence, at least a dozen figures erupted from their hidden positions in the shadows, from unlit corners of the rooms, behind podiums and overturned mess hall tables, and even from the creaky rafters up above. Now gathered before him, Aziraphale gave a sigh. “Yes, thank you— _much_ better.” Even though this was, in fact, not much better. “Now…I know that many of you are upset—”

“An understatement,” one growled from behind Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took in a deep breath, hoping to mask the utter urge to jump right out of his skin. He slowly turned and—much to his surprise—found the baker’s dozen looming right over him. “Yes well, once again, I’m here to clear the air of some... misconceptions _._ ”

“What _misconceptions,_ Bird?” the one in the middle hissed. “What we see is the truth right in front of us. Our _Prince_ is failing our country. Our people are doomed to war—suffering endlessly for a cause we have no say in.”

Aziraphale frowned. “He’s not _failing_ anyone.”

“He has not properly courted an Archangel,” the one of the left deadpanned.

Except for that bit. Aziraphale sighed. “We’re working on that—”

“He has failed to establish rapport with the Divines,” another chimed in.

Aziraphale bit his lip, wishing perhaps that his time on the wing would have been better spent drafting his responses for this debacle of a debate instead of simply, well, winging it. “He’s getting there, we’ve—”

“He spends his days cavorting with a mere Principality who is too _inept_ to understand the gravity of the situation—”

“He’s _immersing_ himself in the culture of his future betrothed,” Aziraphale countered, unable to stop himself from falling back a step or three as the group took a few menacing paces before him. “And _I’m_ here to offer guidance to—”

“ _Guidance_ …” the one behind him—why is there always one behind him?—chuckled. Aziraphale stiffened as they laid a heavy, _armored_ hand on his shoulder. The Angel tried to wrench himself away, but the Demon only caught his hand, Crowley’s ring glimmering against the dim flames. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“I don’t believe I appreciate your tone, sir…” Aziraphale shrugged him off, placing the light firmly between them to illuminate his face. As he held the fire closer to the figure before him, however, it became evident that the demon before him was not cloaked in silks and furs of a noble, but rather the flags and crest of— “A soldier _—!”_

Aziraphale stumbled backwards, ears immediately picking up on the distinct, metallic clink of a sword being drawn. “Oh dear…he’s gullible too.”

“Yes, indeed,” another chuckled; Aziraphale swiftly turned to his right at the groan of a bowstring drawn taut. “Probably believed Prince Crawley to come rescue him, riding off to the sunset with those _maps_ of yours—”

“N-no, of course—” Aziraphale swallowed, fingers numbing with panic and head dizzying with a heady dose of dread. “Ahaha…what maps?” An all-too-telling slip.

“Save it, _Bird._ ” Aziraphale flinched at the blade of an axe slamming to the ground between himself and one of the towering figures. From a distance, a raven cawed. “We’ve just received word that our dearest Prince hasn’t been found since last night after your little rendezvous.” 

Ice flooded his veins, shocking his system numb as an insidious fear slowly encased his heart. _Had he—had he really gone?_ Aziraphale shook his head; _no,_ he refused to believe it. And even if he had…

Could Aziraphale really blame him? “What are you planning to do with him?”

“Poor, pretty little Bird,” the brute before him cooed. “You should be more concerned about what we’re going to do to _you_.” Aziraphale backed himself to a cold, grimy wall as blades aimed at him glinted from the firebright flames. “Now. Where. _Is. **He** ,” _the soldier ground out, punctuating each word with a heavy step forward. “Where did those maps lead?”

 _An exit—he needed to find an exit._ Despite his still-aching wings and the questionable amount of energy he had reserved, it was his only chance. He scanned the ceiling, the rotting rafters, hoping to spot a sliver of moonlight to come shining through. _There!_ At the corner of the room! Slowly, hoping to appear indignant, Aziraphale shuffled away from the walls, hoping to reach the most direct route of escape. “He—He did not abandon you! He did not abandon his people!”

There was a resounding groan of derision at that. “Are you really so naïve?”

 _Yes._ Aziraphale stood firm on that, at least. “I trust Crowley.”

There was a scoff; something almost like humor bleeding into their words, had it not been so foul and dripping with scorn. “No _Prince_ in front of that title?” And the eruption that came in tandem was far too odious to be laughter. “ _Ohohoho_ …the little Bird’s gotten a mite twitterpated, hadn’t he?” Aziraphale yelped as a spear came dangerously close to his shoulder, pinning his cloak in place as it dug through the crumbling stone. “Tell me, did he promise that he’d take you away with him?” a soldier sneered. “Promised that it would be just the two of you before _both_ our kingdoms end in a puddle of hellfire and holy water?”

The Principality shook his head, glaring the demon down. “No. He never promised me that.”

“Not that you would’ve let me.” The Angel felt his heart quicken at the sound of that familiar voice. In that half-second of discord and distraction, Aziraphale wedged himself free, the thick material of his cloak miraculously unscathed as the ruined tip of the spear clattered to the dusty floor. And (rather foolishly), Aziraphale abandoned his haphazardly constructed exit strategy in favor of this recklessly-construed rescue of the Prince’s own design. “For the record, he didn’t surrender the maps either.” Crowley strode past the armed men with purpose, fortitude and _far_ more self-assurance than he had any right to have. “He left me yours.”

“You brought him here?!” one of the men hissed to Aziraphale.

“What—no!” Aziraphale spat back, shoving the line of them aside to confront the utter fool himself. “Also, _why_ are you here?!”

One could almost pinpoint the exact moment Crowley shattered his suave savior stint in favor of rolling his eyes in complete and utter exasperation. “Saving _you,_ you idiot!” He grabbed the Angel by the arm and pulled him towards himself to whisper, “And saving _you_ from embarrassing yourself! Honestly, Angel, what made you think it was a good idea trusting those two—”

The _nerve_ of this pompous prince! “I only wanted to clear YOUR name—and then you go off—disappearing!”

Crowley seemed to roll his eyes so hard that his entire head rolled along with it. “I was trailing after YOU!” he hissed with seething annoyance. Seething annoyance that was quick to sharpen as protectiveness as he stood firmly between the Angel and the soldiers. “Stand down.”

The blades aimed at them both did not lower. “You don’t hold power here, Prince _Crawley._ ”

Even then, Crowley did not waver in the slightest. “Are you defecting from your positions then? From your duties? Your loyalties?”

“Our loyalty is to our people!” the larger one roared, slamming a hefty battle-axe blade to the ground. 

“We both want the same thing here!” Aziraphale pleaded. “There’s no need to fight—”

“The same thing?” another sneered, readying their bow. “Not when _you_ stand to bring our people to war—and all for what?” The answer laid there before them: as Crowley, their unmotivated, disgraceful, _Bastard_ Prince stood before their arrow, keeping the Principality shielded behind him. “Is that it…” They gave a bitter laugh. _“Disgusting.”_

“What were you planning?” Crowley demanded.

In the glow of hellfire, the shrouded soldiers of a defecting Legion raised their weapons, uncaring if a crowned prince stood in their way. Aziraphale scrambled to get out from behind Crowley, only to have the Prince keep him in place. “N-now, hang on—!”

A soldier came forward, brandishing a broadsword with candid animosity, aiming its point straight at Aziraphale’s neck: “Eliminating this little…distraction. It would have been your wakeup call to do what you were told!”

“You _imbeciles,_ ” Crowley snarled. His amber eyes seemed to glow like hot coals in the light of the Infernal flames, a mark of the Serpent’s bloodline. “If something happened to him that could be traced back to Hell’s doing, didn’t you think that would in turn spark war?!”

The group held firm to their haphazard scheme, callously asserting: “He’s a _Principality_.”

Crowley glowered at the soldiers, fangs bared. “And he’s _mine.”_

Those words shouldn’t have had the effect they did on Aziraphale, pulse-racing, heart-thundering, and breath-taking—no, not from Crowley’s mouth. Not from the mouth of a Prince whose hand was promised to another.

(( _It did anyways._ ))

“You have nothing to gain from this,” Crowley cautioned. “Or are you willing to kill _me_ as well?”

None answered, save for a cold deflection of, “Give us the Principality.”

 _“Never,”_ Crowley growled in turn.

And as blush-forming, butterflies-in-the-stomach-inducing as the Prince’s rather… _princely_ approach to this disaster of a rescue was, Aziraphale felt like they’d been going in bloody **circles** and he’d just about had enough. And the worst part? Not one person was willing to listen to the ONLY one who bore a single iota of sense here!

It was entirely maddening.

 _“Look!”_ The Angel erupted, shoving Crowley out from in front of him. He in turn glared down the soldiers lined up before them, his own sea-storm eyes raging with the fury of summer gales. “Your goal is peace for your people, right? And to achieve that, Crowley must wed an Archangel, yes? To stop the wars? That’s what I’m here to make happen! Sure, there have been a few… _hitches_ in the road, but—”

“You’ve had your chance.” They were advancing now, weapons drawn and at the ready. “Squandered our time, seducing princes to do your will—”

Aziraphale’s face heated up; he dared not look at Crowley, who made quite an interesting noise beside him. “ _Oh_ , I think perhaps you’ve got the wrong impression.”

 ** _“ENOUGH!”_** one of the soldiers bellowed. 

The Principality could hardly stifle a squeak at the crashing cry. He felt Crowley grip at his cloak before making a noise of interest as he recognized the material. “Oh? Chilly out, wasn’t it?” There was _just_ enough of a tease in that remark that Aziraphale fought the urge to swat at him, knowing full well what the Prince had uncovered, but _this was clearly **not** the time—_

“Now do you have any last words?” an encroaching soldier sneered.

And while the soldier _obviously_ meant Aziraphale, it was instead Crowley who interjected with a far-too-chipper question of: “Sure, yeah, hey, Angel…remember that trick I taught you?”

The meaning dawned on the Guide immediately and despite the gravity of the situation (not to mention the looming execution he himself was facing), Aziraphale could do little more than swivel around, sputtering as roses bloomed across his cheeks. “Really, Crowley? Right now?”

To which the Prince blithely (offensively) encouraged with, “Yeah, give it a go, just this once!”

 _This little—_ and don’t get Aziraphale wrong, this would have been bloody brilliant if it hadn’t been well... “But—it’s so humiliating!” Aziraphale whined. But honestly, _was this really the time to argue?_

Then again, if the Prince wanted it done, he could very well do it himself. Crowley scoffed. “Angel, it’s really not so bad when you get used to it—”

“In front of an _audience?!”_ Aziraphale gasped, thoroughly scandalized. 

There might’ve been a mightily concerned look shared amongst the soldiers, before one of them decided enough was enough. **_“STOP!”_** The pair tore their gaze away from teasing/glaring the other down to face a seething soldier. “I SAID LAST WORDS, NOT A BLOODY EXHIBITION TO WHATEVER YOU LECHEROUS THING YOU TAUGHT HIM—”

And amid the tirade, Aziraphale sent a silent prayer to his Queen; one a call for strength, a plea for protection, an appeal for absolution, and the other a curse to Crowley. Aziraphale cleared his throat, looking up to the sky, awaiting the smiting he definitely deserved from his Divine Powers from above as he loudly cooed, _“Awww yes, who’s a lovely girl! Yes, you are, yes you are!”_ , voice all saccharine and syrup as he made kissing noises to naught but empty air.

If only to save him from this _humiliation._

 _“Where’s my lovely-sweet? Where’re you hiding? Come out now, and we can play!”_ Aziraphale seemed to shudder out his next sentence, with a look so unnerved that the soldiers too felt hesitant: _“W-we can play your **favorite** game!” _

“What the…” The knights look to one another at first, then to the Bird that had clearly gone mad. All the while, Crowley kept a firm grip on the Angel’s cloak, eyes focused on the crumbling rafters above them.

The realization came a tick too late as the stench of brimstone and _burning_ filled the air.

All the while, Aziraphale kept a calling to the skies with that same, grating, singsong intonation: “ _Yes, what a precious girl you are, **Bentley**!”_

It was with a vicious cry from the heavens above that heralded the onslaught that came crashing down moments later; the crumbling stone and rotted wood gave way, collapsing beneath a flood of flames. Cries were muted beneath the cataclysm of inferno, set ablaze by dragon-fire that consumed the hall as iron and bone gave way to ash.

Crowley peeked at the ravaged scene before them from under Aziraphale’s open coat, the Angel holding the heavy material over them both as it shielded them from the onslaught. The soldiers were wounded, heavily, struggling to get to their feet as the flames boiled them alive within their armor. The Prince looked away, ushering himself and his Angel outside as the flames sought to devour every crevice of the fortress. They stumbled their way, ignoring the echoing cries of the damned and instead only focused on the small patches of ground left untouched by the poisonous flames. 

Once out of the vicinity, Bentley gave an earsplitting shriek before obliterating the fortress to the ground in draconic glee. Aziraphale watched absently as the dragon, in a show of both horror and wonder, decimated an entire military stronghold within a matter of minutes.

All the while indirectly protecting them both from such a fiery fate. “I thought you hated the coat,” Crowley asked as he detached himself from the Angel.

“Well. It certainly proved useful,” Aziraphale mumbled, shaken, numb, and a bit hysterical at the night’s events. So much so that he couldn’t help but crack a smile and perhaps even a bit of a jab at the night’s turnout. “Unfortunately, dragon scales clash a bit too much with tartan.”

“ _Tartan_ ,” Crowley muttered in distaste, masking just how fast his heart was beating, seeing his Angel framed by the blazes of firelight, having nearly _lost_ him—and yet in the end, found both sanctuary and refuge by his side. “Mark my words, Angel, I’ll get you out of that ridiculous garb one way or another.” _Preferably in our marriage bed_ , Crowley thought as Bentley landed herself before them and immediately nuzzled the Angel, enthusiastic at having been summoned by his call.

“You’ll have to fight me for it, my dear,” Aziraphale huffed, petting Bentley’s snout with such familiarity and affection that Crowley could feel his very ribs creaking with the swell of love he carried for this impossible creature.

 _Preferably in our marriage bed,_ Crowley prayed.

Aziraphale meanwhile surveyed the wreckage about them. Not that there was much to take in. Dragon-fire consumed the fortress, the venomous green of Bentley’s flames razing the old stone and bloodstained earth, something stronger and more ancient than Infernal flames, consuming armor and flesh, scattering the remains to the unforgiving winds. The flames soon died, however, leaving barely a trace of its magnificent and terrible presence. _Bentley’s doing,_ Aziraphale noted with awe and pride, the wondrous creature able to command her flames with the slightest whim. No life stirred from beyond what remained of the fortress walls. The soldiers no doubt perished. Every single one of them. A heaviness settled at the pit of his stomach, chilling his veins despite the ash in the air as guilt coiled itself right at its center.

“They meant to make it look like an accident.”

The coil loosened just a hair out of astonishment. “What?”

Crowley’s face was unreadable. “They had plans of disposing you and trying to make your death appear as unrelated as possible.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened as Crowley met his gaze evenly. “I caught Hastur and Ligur slipping a letter to your superiors, forged to appear as though written by your hand. I managed to nab it before it was taken by the Metatron. In it, it read that you had urgent matters to attend to up North and that you would be relieving your position as my Guide.” There was a flicker of something there; a flash of something too fast for Aziraphale to catch. “I…ran to your room in case—” Crowley sighed, quiet and somber. “In case I had driven you away.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale felt his heart fracture; he knew he should have stayed that night—listened to what had been ailing Crowley instead of jumping to conclusions. He’d been pained by the Prince’s perceived betrayal, naturally, but that hadn’t meant that Crowley wasn’t hurting too.

“Instead, I found coordinates. Coordinates that lead me here.” Aziraphale nodded in understanding; he’d left notes in the room in case anyone had gone looking, breadcrumbs should things go pear-shaped. To follow his trail should anyone bother to come looking for him.

He hadn’t counted on Crowley coming to his rescue. Not when the Prince could have just as easily rummaged through his collection and found the maps he’d been seeking instead.

((Aziraphale hadn’t made those particularly difficult for the Prince to find, either.))

What were they to do now? The sinking realization that others could be involved, that more attacks could follow suit, that Crowley’s life would be in _jeopardy_ began mounting in Aziraphale’s thoughts. Poisoned fruit born from the single stem of a simple misunderstanding. _How many of them knew of the maps?_ the Guide wondered. How many of Hell’s denizens would learn of Prince Crowley’s request for the maps and paint his moment of hesitancy and weakness as a betrayal, just as Aziraphale had in the beginning? How many would perverse their earnest (but empty) endeavors to treason? How—

How could anyone look at them and even _think_ that Crowley would willfully choose a mere Principality over an Archangel?

But somehow they did—somehow this was now a problem that existed and they needed to do something _before_ things snowballed out of proportion and they were deemed traitors of their kingdoms, _before_ another attempt at their lives was made, and _before_ these attempts succeeded.

 _We could run,_ something sinister, vile, and _tempting_ all at once whispered at the back of Aziraphale’s mind.

Before Aziraphale could even _berate_ himself for even conceiving of such a thing as an option, Crowley took a breath, offering: “I’ll have to get into contact…with my family. To let them know what’s happened.”

Aziraphale immediately contested. “But—”

“A handful of my Legion are _traitors_ and are now smoldering piles of dragon-ash, Angel—this will _not_ go unnoticed by Hell.” Crowley leaned his forehead against Bentley’s smooth scales, patting her soothingly. His breaths evened out, the Prince seeming to collect his thoughts and lining them in meticulous order as he continued. “I need to make it appear as though they’d been targeting me instead, painting them as opposing the treaty. But above all, we need to keep news of this event away from Heaven as much as possible. Damage control is key, right now.”

“Damage control,” Aziraphale weakly echoed.

“Yeah.” He let out a shaky breath. “This is alright. This is doable,” he said, likely more to reassure himself than the fretting Angel beside him. Maybe not so though, as he turned to look at Aziraphale, a weariness in his eyes unlike anything Aziraphale had ever seen. Even then, the words out of his mouth were a sincere, soft, “Are you all right?”

_Oh._

“I…I am.” And Aziraphale would believe so himself if it would lighten the burden Crowley shouldered. He’d do anything for him, Aziraphale realized with belated terror and too-little fanfare. “I...suppose I should thank you.” 

But then Crowley was giving that— _hopeful_ look at him—the same look he shared with the Guide on quiet moments between food and drink, between balls and dancing—

Between heartbreaking kisses and trust-shattering requests. Aziraphale swallowed back a panic that was threatening to bubble towards the surface, erupting in stammering, nervous words. “You know…maybe they were right. Maybe…maybe I’m not the right person for this—"

((Anything to distance himself from this. Anything to keep him from worsening the situation more than it already has.))

Crowley narrowed his eyes, the amber in them flashing with an unreadable expression. “You want to thank me, is that right?”

“Yes.” But the expression he wore—handsome face stern with the corner of his lips tugged to a frown, who was Aziraphale to deny him? “Of course.”

Especially with Crowley’s hand on his arm, warm and solid, anchoring him whether the Demon knew it or not. “Then stay here. By my side.” His hand slid down to catch his wrist in a loose grasp, allowing Aziraphale to break free from his hold at any moment, should he desire. “I won’t leave you to take the blame. We’re in this together, yeah?” As if Aziraphale would ever want to. “I meant it. We’ll figure this out, Angel.”

Though he knew he ought to. Aziraphale caught Crowley’s hand in his own, holding the Prince’s slender fingers in his palm and closing his other hand over it. “Come Hellfire or Holy Water,” Aziraphale vowed, holding Crowley’s gaze. “I’ll do my best…to do right by you, Crowley.” 

Crowley seemed pleased by that, his eyes softening around the edges, a smile lifting at one end of his mouth. It heartened the angel, knowing that he eased the Prince’s burden, at least in the small way of making sure Crowley knew he wasn’t alone in this. That they were on each other’s side—that they always had been. And there that look was again, at home on Crowley’s lovely face as he drew himself to the Angel, those bright amber eyes drifting shut as he leaned in closer and closer, their breaths mingling though Aziraphale had promptly forgotten how to breathe, let alone move, at that very moment—

Thankfully, Bentley was more than happy to provide her assistance, shoving Aziraphale forward with a nudge of her warm snout.

(Un)fortunately, the resultant knocking of their skulls only resulted in minor head trauma rather than the emotional trauma _whatever the hell Crowley had been thinking of doing_ would have caused had Aziraphale just stood there like a gaping dead fish.

“We should get back,” Aziraphale somehow managed to squeak out.

The Guide tried his very damnest not to meet Crowley’s gaze, the firelight having long petered to embers and unfit to take the blame for his red cheeks. Nevertheless, the utter disappointment in Crowley’s half-mumbled, “ _Right...”_ was more than sufficient to convey the Prince’s feelings on the matter.

* * *

Sleep didn’t come easily to the Guide that evening. And this time, it hadn’t been entirely because of Bentley’s unnaturally high spirits in bringing them back to the palace. Though she _had_ been exceptionally pleased that night…

 _She’s just glad you’re warming up to her,_ Crowley had said, lips against the shell of his ear as Aziraphale _foolishly, foolishly_ sat in front that time. 

Aziraphale shivered in his sheets, the reality of it all sinking in. By the Queen herself—he’d just summoned a _dragon._ And not just any dragon, but the _Prince’s_. No one was allowed to handle Bentley but Crowley. Not his servants, not his guards, _certainly_ no one in his family—

But he’d let Aziraphale. 

His friend.

A mere Principality.

A lowly Guide...whose death would have been Crowley’s punishment for not keeping his end of the treaty. A failure. A _distraction._

Aziraphale turned away from the window to his room, illuminated under the pale light. Crowley’s things littered amongst his belongings. The gifts, picked with an impeccable eye for detail, the trinkets, flowers, and baubles holding memories of the wonderful time they’ve spent together, whisking the Principality away to far-off places and glitzy balls, dancing all night, sharing delicious foods with hours and hours of banter, and basking in each other’s presence... Aziraphale sighed. He may have been a stand-in for Crowley’s future mate, maybe even schmoozed for some parchment, but it was more than evident that Crowley had the charm, charisma, grace, and beauty to woo anyone he wanted.

((It certainly worked on Aziraphale.))

In the end, _he’d_ been the one to endanger them both. His death was meant to keep Crowley focused on his goals, on the treaty, to set him on the right course of action—certainly all that could be achieved in a far less… traumatic manner. The mere thought of Crowley endangering his life all over again, all for the sake of being around a _Principality_ that had “s-seduced” him!? 

They were mad to think so.

((But that didn’t stop them from holding a weapon to their own Prince.))

When it came down to it, perhaps those soldiers were right. Not in their impression of course, but in that the root of Crowley’s problems…

Was Aziraphale. 

Perhaps if he spent less time with Aziraphale, the other Demons would be less suspicious; perhaps if Crowley had a stricter Guide, one with affluence and influence, he would have made a better impression on the Divines. Perhaps if Aziraphale had been better, been _different…_

Except he wasn’t. Instead, what Crowley got was a kindhearted, naïve, and a tad too gullible for his own good _fool._

Fool or not…Crowley was his friend, the greatest honor he could bear. And as his friend, he had to ensure that Crowley succeeded. That Crowley was _safe._ And it was reckless and difficult Aziraphale was sure to wallow in a pit of misery for quite some time afterwards, Aziraphale had vowed that he would do right by him, and he knew that he couldn’t afford to let Crowley down anymore—

Because he would do _anything_ for Crowley.

Even…even if it meant removing himself from his position.

Even if it meant breaking another promise and his own heart in doing so. 

* * *

After a sleepless night, Aziraphale prepared a request to have a formal audience with the Queen.

It was notoriously difficult to obtain a direct meeting. Worst case scenario, he’d be assigned to one of the Archangels to duly delegate his concerns. Nevertheless, it was unheard of to approach Her Majesty without the proper paperwork, and so Aziraphale scribbled away. Within the meticulously drafted form requirements, Aziraphale thought long and hard on how to approach the Subject Matter at hand. It must be penned in such a way that highlighted Crowley’s natural capabilities that didn’t require Aziraphale’s interventions without drawing too much attention as to _why there had been little to no progress of late._

 _If the bloody Archangels just gave him a **chance** , _Aziraphale seethed as he specifically requested to _not_ be received by one of the Divines.

_Especially Gabriel._

Sealed and addressed to Her Majesty, the Angel set down his quill, quietly marveling at its brilliant sheen despite the sinking sensation that gripped him as he gazed upon the raven-black feather. 

He breathed out a sigh and pushed himself off his chair. With a heavy heart, he went about to deliver his request to the Queen’s private secretary, sending a silent prayer to his Queen as the envelope slipped through his fingers; one a call for strength, a plea for Crowley’s protection, an appeal for his own absolution, and Her blessing that...he’d gone and done the right thing. 

Returning to his quarters, Aziraphale closed the door behind him. He glanced around the crowded room, finding a diadem at the corner of his bedpost, a luxurious coat hanging off a new sofa, a collection of raven-colored quills, astonishingly vibrant Imperial snowdrops (Crowley must have been watering them), and stacks and stacks of books, written by Demon authors, woven into his own personal library.

 _It’s a lot to sort out,_ he realized. He wondered if could even carry the weight of all these memories; wondered if he could place these months of _Crowley_ in a box and shut them away until he could bear to face them again. Aziraphale traced the intricate engravings of the ring Crowley had placed on his finger, wondering if he could just give it all back and walk away like nothing had ever happened.

((Unlikely.))

But Aziraphale needed to get started in packing his things anyhow. He wouldn’t be needed in the palace any longer.

He at least hoped that he’d be invited back for Crowley’s wedding.

* * *

Preparations for departure ate away at the hours until it suddenly occurred to him that he’d gone the entire day without seeing horn nor tail of Crowley. A part of Aziraphale (shamefully) admitted that perhaps it was best to leave off like this: a proper goodbye, no matter how amicable they parted ways, would forever lay heavy in the Angel’s heart with the very real possibility of tainting all the happier times they shared with a bitter tinge of melancholy.

Nevertheless, it was something he owed to the Prince. Crowley deserved to know that Aziraphale had not abandoned him out of lack of faith.

No…the only one to blame here was Aziraphale’s own ineptitude.

More than that…

He wanted to make sure his friend was all right. 

He requested that they meet by the gardens that night, as they did so many nights previous. Though this time, it had been another face that greeted Aziraphale at the entrance to the Demon’s wing—with mischievous eyes but tamer in comparison to Crowley’s (likely _former_ ) footmen. Eric, he’d called himself, as Aziraphale asked to relay Crowley a message to meet him where they “typically convened.”

The bright-eyed demon only grinned with a smirk far too implicating for Aziraphale to tolerate before he shuffled inside, slamming the door behind him. The echoes reverberated eerily in the too-large, too-empty space. Seeing as he asked for Crowley to meet him at the gardens rather than walk with him there, Aziraphale turned right around, hurrying in his steps to give himself some time to formulate what he should say, strengthen his resolve, and hope for the best. 

At the very least, he prayed there wouldn’t be another ambush.

Thankfully, all that awaited him were the trees swaying in their eternal spring, and flowers closing petal by petal in surrender to the night. Aziraphale let out a breath, the tension from his shoulders releasing like a tightly wound spring as he sagged against the stone bench. He cast his eyes to the pond before him, aglow beneath a solemn moon. Even with his own weariness spilling out of him like a smashed pot, he couldn’t help but drink in the heavy atmosphere. It smelt like impending rain. Perhaps it heralded a new beginning to wash away the mistakes he’d made. Or perhaps it was an omen of an oncoming storm, devastating and destructive as all disasters were wont to be. 

Perilous, relentless, unstoppable—inescapable. 

"Where'd you get off with this?"

Aziraphale startled from his seat at their familiar bench at the quiet rage that boiled beneath the Prince’s words. “Crowley!” His eyes widened at the crumpled parchment that laid in his hand. “How did you…”

Crowley threw it down, the tattered note almost catching fire as those amber eyes glared with fury, insult, and hurt. “After the stunt Hastur and Ligur pulled, you think I _wouldn’t_ intercept any outgoing requests with any of our names on it? Imagine me finding _this_ and demanding where it had come from…and realizing that they were telling the truth for once.” Aziraphale flinched as Crowley crowded him, breathing erratic, the mask of resentment cracking at the edges to reveal the betrayal hollowing him from the inside out. “What happened to staying by my side, hm? _Doing right by me—_ is this what you think is _right_ , Angel!?”

“Crowley, I’ve come to realize that I’ve been steering you wrong, dear,” Aziraphale tried, gently placing an arm on his shoulder, only for Crowley to roughly shove it aside. The Angel sighed, grabbing at his forearm this time and forcing the Prince to face him properly. “You—you don’t _need_ me anymore, don’t you see?” Aziraphale searched those hellfire-bright eyes, wishing he could mend that stricken look. _He still doesn’t understand._ “You’re wonderful as you are, Crowley, you don’t need my help—”

Confusion overtook anger, and for that, Aziraphale was at least grateful. “Angel, what is this about?” Crowley looked about him before leaning in close, whispering, “If this is about last night, I promise you, Angel, you’ll be safe, I can keep you safe, you won’t have to worry—”

Aziraphale took a sharp breath, reining in the reflex to comfort Crowley, to reassure him that it had nothing to with finding the Prince _too dangerous_ to be around. But he had to stand firm here and not lose sight of his stance. For both their sakes. For both their kingdoms. “No. It’s...it’s not about my safety, Crowley. It’s just...you’re a _Prince_ , you ought to be cozying up to the Archangels, not— _fraternizing_ with a mere Principality _—_ ”

“ _FRATERNIZING?!”_ And all of a sudden, Aziraphale found it very hard to look Crowley in the eye. At the devastated expression Crowley bore so openly. At the betrayal bleeding into his words as he begged, pleaded, “Is that what all of this has been for you?”

Especially not after this outright _lie_ leapt past his lips _:_ “ _Obviously_!” And yet, the moment he said it, he immediately wanted to take those words back—stuff them back into his throat and choke on its sharpness, far more bitter than any pill. Aziraphale cleared his throat, feeling the regret dig daggers down his gullet as he released the Prince’s arms and took a step back. “Crowley, think of your station _—”_

“That’s never mattered to you before!” And despite his cruel, poisonous words, Crowley still looked to him, imploring, crestfallen, and vulnerable. “Hasn’t it?”

To which Aziraphale could only wretchedly repeat the same mantra that had overtaken his duty, his very own heart. “My dear. My job was to prepare you to wed an Archangel. For the sake of peace. For the sake of our kingdoms—”

_“I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS—ANY OF IT!”_

Aziraphale watched him as he cursed to the skies, daring the stars, _damning_ the stars that sealed his fate. He came closer now, cautiously, hand stretched out to fish him out the clouds and anchor him back. “Crowley…”

He didn’t even look, didn’t even _react_ to the Angel’s touch. All except for this utterance: “None of this was my choice—coming here to be sneered at by a nest of snobbish Birds…planning an engagement to one of these Archangel _fucks_ —"

Aziraphale found himself unable to even chastise the Prince for that. “My dear...”

Crowley sighed, heavy and sorrowful. “Not even meeting you.” Maybe even regretful.

Aziraphale looked stricken. “I…”

“But…meeting you was the only good part about any of this. Meeting you…and seeing how much you love life, enjoy the peace, how much you look forward to the end of all these pointless wars…” He sounded hollow then. 

Resigned. “Crowley…” And for some reason, that scared and concerned Aziraphale more than anything else. “It…it is unfair. I know I can never understand your position, the expectations placed on you, and the utterly _unfair_ judgment and treatment you received. My job was to make it easier for you, but I…” He let out a shuddering breath, carefully prodding, “Was this…was this why you asked for those maps? For the paths beyond Heaven’s domains? So you could escape all this?”

And how _desperately_ Crowley wanted to say, to scream, _No—no, it was for **us** —all of this was for **us** so we wouldn’t have to—so that **I** …wouldn’t have to make the choice. _Crowley said none of these things. Didn’t say them because they were the _Wrong_ Things. The Wrong Things that Crowley so desperately wanted to be right. So instead what came from his mouth was, “I never saw the point, you know? ‘m the Bastard Prince, after all. What kind of binding union would that be for our people? Even if it was to one of the Divines.”

Aziraphale sighed, grasping his hand lightly, those lovely sea-storm eyes baring a heart of sympathy and kindness. “Dear… you really ought to have a higher opinion of yourself than that. You are not your title, Crowley. You have a brave and dear heart and—you’ve sacrificed so much and taken such great risks in being here. This isn’t easy, anyone can see that. But I…it must be so difficult to be met with a fate that you can’t control. A future that’s not your own…” He sighed, eyes wet, lower lip wobbling, and _upset._ “Forgive me, Crowley. I didn’t understand before.” 

All because Crowley had gone and fallen in love with an Angel that was not meant for him. “s’all right, Angel. There’s…there’s really nothing either of us could do now, is there.”

How badly Crowley wanted to take Aziraphale’s hand and ask him to run away together. Take the maps and just _go_. But he knew Aziraphale would never trade peace for his own selfish happiness.

He’d always been too good for Crowley.

Too good for Crowley to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Albatrosses can fly 500 miles in 1 day. Since demons are land-based, that would have taken 3 weeks on foot. Assuming horseback, 14 hours for 100 miles, plus rest and food, would take a single soldier to get to the capitol in around 5 days, but much slower as an entire army. On foot, traveling 20 miles a day, would be around 3 weeks to a month.
> 
> And Bentley’s a dragon and all that just flies out the window.
> 
> *- Chorus of angels; legion of demons, but also a murder of crows because they were calling Aziraphale a Bird lol
> 
> Thank you again so much to each and every one of you still on this journey with me~ and for those who just joined, welcome!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over on [new-endings on tumblr](https://new-endings.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to say hi~
> 
> Thank you for reading~


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